


Dragon Age Drabble Dump

by Crownonymous



Series: Battle Against Writer's Block [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 27,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crownonymous/pseuds/Crownonymous
Summary: Series of characterizations, scenes, drabbles, prompts, etc. centred around the DA universe





	1. Inquisitor Adaar

**Author's Note:**

> There will be continuity errors. And canon errors. And grammar errors. I keep forgetting how the English language works. Apologies for the mess.

Arenis Adaar

Even for a qunari, she was tall. Not as tall as the Bull, of course, but taller than most. Enough to scrape her horns on the fixtures of the Gull and Lantern. Enough that she could leer down on anyone who would dare cross her Inquisition. One steely gaze and just the right curl of her lips was enough to have most back down.

It helps, too. For all her intimidating glares, and the sharpened daggers just waiting to be dragged across someone's throat, Arenis hated fighting without cause. An assassin that avoids the kill. If she can incapacitate someone, she won't deliver the killing blow. If she can disarm someone, she won't bury her daggers into soft flesh.

But she's also aggressive. Confrontational. A well of fighting spirit kept dammed and locked away, battering at the walls, demanding to be set loose. She snaps at her enemies, daring them to make the first move, to attack. She stared down Corypheus at Haven, a sneer on her lips, and a challenge to her voice.

She spoke like she wanted a fight, wanted to hammer her fists down onto someone's back, paint her blades red.

War offered little chance to be gentle, little chance to be fair. When Leliana came to her with a list of names, of secrets, of people they can use for the Inquisition, Arenis takes the chance. She lets Leliana send her spies to steal secrets, press for any advantage they can find. War calls for sacrifice, and Arenis was willing to make the tough calls and bear the burden of guilt.

If her decisions haunted her at night, she never tells. Always, she walks with her head high, pride in her steps. When she receives news of soldiers dead, she nods and arranges for compensation to be sent to grieving families. It's clinical, business-like. When news of the deaths of some of her former Valo-Kas mercenaries reaches her, she calmly orders a search party.

There's no tears. No screaming. Just a cool, stoic decision.

 

Sometimes, one of her companions would ask.

"Are you alright, Inquisitor?"

And, without hesitation, Arenis would reply, "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

The Inquisition needs a strong leader. Arenis can't afford to hesitate. Her duty comes first. Above everything. If she regrets anything she has done, she won't allow the mask of composure to fall. Not while her soldiers need her at the helm. Not while countless people look to her as a beacon of hope against Corypheus.

She can't falter.


	2. The Bull's Chargers (Arenis Adaar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is young. Adaar needs all the help she can get.

Blood clung to her clothes, soaking through the fabric and sticking to her skin. It would harden and flake off, in time, but the sensation was no less disgusting. Especially with the light rain that seemed to constantly drip down the clouds hanging over the Storm Coast. Her daggers hung heavy in her hands.

Bodies of venatori carpeted the ground they came from in their ascent on the hill. Mages and gladiators, their armor and robes shining red while the rain cradled some of the carnage down to the earth. Blackwall and Cassandra began sweeps around their position to weed out any stragglers.

Bull simply held a triumphant grin, covered in blood from the fight. "We're clear, Gatt." Still, he didn't seem bothered by the feeling, and only watched patiently as Gatt signaled the dreadnought.

A few months ago, Arenis would have balked at his revelry of fighting, at his disregard for having blood stick to him. Now, she simply sat on a rock that wasn't as sharp as the rest, and took to cleaning her blades while they waited. Bull will be Bull, and if she took offense at every drop of blood that made it onto Bull, she would never have a moment's peace.

"The Chargers already sent theirs up." The triumph on Bull's face slowly morphed to pride. "See 'em down there?"

"I knew you gave them the easier job."

Arenis mirrored the soft smile on Bull's face. She remembered the Valo-Kas. The look on Shokrakar's face when William "Iron-Ass" Tully mentioned Arenis to her after a particularly satisfying job. The vicious cheering when Arenis landed the final blow to the last man standing, her daggers painted red.

Shokrakar would want Arenis to lead the Inquisition as well as Shokrakar lead the Valo-Kas. Fierce, firm, and fair. Take necessary risks. Find the best angle and exploit it. Use every advantage available.

_Hopefully, I can live up to her expectations._ The thought was bittersweet, but still made Arenis' smile grow wider.

By the time the bell signalling the arrival of the dreadnought rang, Arenis had her daggers cleaned and sheathed. She stood beside Bull, and watched as the dreadnought obliterated the Venatori ships. "Nice one!" Bull laughed. The sound was deep, guttural, and his massive frame shook with every breath.

While the Qun and its principles chilled her to the core, she had to concede. Dreadnoughts were a marvel to behold.

All too soon, however, Bull's disposition changed. His easy stance changed to that of apprehension. His muscles tensed, fingers twitching. Arenis followed his line of sight, and nearly gasped.

"Crap." Bull all but growled, his brows furrowing.

It was a sentiment Arenis shared. Dozens of Venatori mages, marching right for the hill where the Chargers readied themselves for battle.

Tactics weren't Arenis' strong suit. She lead the Inquistion. She always stood in the heat of battle, at the very front, rallying her soldiers with battlecries. She much preferred to charge first, and think later. But she didn't need to be well-versed in tactics to calculate the Chargers' odds.

"The chargers can't stand against that kind of force." Arenis stated, eyes narrowing when she spotted Krem on the hill, unsheathing his sword and standing in front of the others as he waited for further orders.

Bull's voice was sure and grim. "No, they can't."

As Gatt and Bull trade words, Gatt's more heated, more argumentative, Arenis weighed her options.

Even if she dropped from the hill and ran to Krem as fast as she can, she won't make it in time. There was no force on Thedas that could save the Chargers AND the potential alliance at the same time.

Krem was a good man. So was Dalish, and Skinner, and Grim, and all of the Bull's Chargers, laying down their lives for the sake of the Inquisition. But the Inquisition was young. They practically have no allies. No information. No influence. The Ben-Hassrath offered everything the Inquisition needed to spread its reach.

When Bull looked to her for a decision, she clenched her fists and forced herself to meet his eyes.

"We need to hold that hill at all costs."

Arenis didn't have Ben-Hassrath training. She barely knew enough social rules not to offend every visiting dignitary who passed by Skyhold. People weren't her forte. She didn't know how to sense the atmosphere, to read body language, gauge emotions by the look seen on their faces.

But in that instant, with Bull watching the hill where the sound of fighting slowly died with the Chargers, she could have sworn that Bull looked sad.


	3. Traning (Josephine x Arenis Adaar, Cassandra)

"Duels are fought with swords, aren't they?"

Cassandra stopped just before her sword hit the dummy. Arenis maintained the stoic expression she was ever so infamous for, and just stared as the gears turned in Cassandra's head. "Yes, I believe so."

Before Cassandra could say more, Arenis interrupted, "How different would wielding a sword be to wielding a dagger?"

This time, Cassandra planted her sword into the soft ground, leaning into it. "It would be difficult, I imagine. The balance, and the posture would not be what you're used to." A moment's pause, and Cassandra continued. "Is there a reason you're asking, Inquisitor?"

For a moment, Arenis wanted to tell her.

'There's a nobleman from Antiva who's been betrothed to Josephine,' she wants to say. 'Dueling Lord Otranto and winning would make him and his family withdraw the engagement but I don't know how difficult it would be to fight with a sword instead of my daggers.'

It would be easy to say that. Cassandra was her friend. One of the few people Arenis could fully trust without doubt, without suspicion. But this was private. Enough of her life has been put under scrutiny the moment she became the"herald" and she wanted to keep this one thing out of anyone's notice.

(Leliana, of course, knew the moment Arenis issued the challenge between herself and Otranto, but expecting anything less of her is unrealistic.)

An awkwardly long pause followed. "I want to learn how to use a sword."

"You are already quite proficient with a weapon," Cassandra replied, though not unkindly. "What makes you want to learn swordfighting?"

A shrug. "Practical reasons. If I'm fighting, and my daggers get knocked out of my hands, I want to at least be able to defend myself with something rather than get skewered because I have no weapon."

Maybe, once the duel is won, Cassandra would forgive her for the small lie.

"Very well." Cassandra handed Arenis a spare sword and pulled her to her feet. "I should warn you, Inquisitor. I won't go easy on you."

_Neither will he_ , came the thought.

She readied her sword, mimicking Cassandra's stance and grip. It still felt foreign in her hands. Cassandra's voice was loud, her instructions clear, and Arenis swung the blade with ferocity, Josephine's smile flickering in her mind.


	4. Everyone Has Unique Magic AU (DA:I Inner Circle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "AU where everyone has magic. literally everyone." and "what if magic was more unique to the individual using it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: mages can still use normal magic. in the case of specializations, consider this another spell in their skill tree only available to them.

**Cassandra** : Light. It pools in her hands like water and illuminates even the darkest of caves. It is blinding, sure, and deadly. She can't wield it as easily as her sword, but she wields it just the same. Strong, fierce, right at the forefront of every battle. It is a physical representation of her faith, a sign that the Maker exists, that he cares for his children. She blasts it at hordes of demons, searing them with holy light, leads the group in caverns too dark to tread. Simple and straightforward. It's effective, but tires her out faster. And if she uses it too much, her nose tends to bleed, her arms quiver, her knees buckle. Still, it is a useful tool, one that she's happy to use if it offers an advantage against the enemy. She'd much rather hit things with her sword, though.

**Josephine:** She does not have gifts of flashy magic, of spells that smite enemies, or fires that burn stone. Her magic is more subtle, but no less deadly. In Josephine's hands, her magic is even more dangerous than anyone else's. Her words already cripple nobles and sway nations. And her magic only lends to her expertise. Josephine can weave magic into her words, like the sirens sung in old tavern tales. Should she choose to, she can lull soldiers to sleep, soothe troubled minds, convince dignitaries to pledge their allegiance to the Inquisition. Thankfully, for everyone's sakes, she chooses to speak without her magic. She's already formidable enough as it is. Though, if she does, her lack of use leads to violent headaches and nausea the next morning. All the more reason not to use her magic.

**Cole** : For better or worse, Cole can read people. More than just vague feelings of their emotions, more than just their thoughts. An entire life is free for him to look at, to watch and analyze and see. Most of all, he can alter it. Shift someone's mind just so to make them forget a painful memory. To  make them remember something they once thought lost. To talk directly to them without the use of words at all. It helps him help them, makes it easier to heal the hurt and make them forget if they need to. It makes him better at helping. And spirits like him don't feel the drawback. Of course, it becomes harder to focus if he becomes more human. Harder to control. But he uses it often enough that it's merely an extra step he has to take now. It doesn't affect his abilities to help.

**Leliana** : It was only fitting that Leliana can shapeshift into a raven. Her magic has some similarities with Morrigan's, in a way. But, unlike Morrigan, her affinity for crows offers more than shapeshifting. If she wants to, she can see through their eyes, hear what they hear, feel what they feel. She can jump from the consciousness of a crow in Ferelden to one in Orlais in a heartbeat. Her crows give her access to forts and castles, to the chateaus of rich nobles, and the farmlands of lowly peasants. Leliana guards the side-effects closely, as well. No one ever notices when her vision flashes between all her crows sat in the rookery, or when she suddenly stops seeing the war table and starts seeing rolling grasslands in the Hinterlands. No one knew of this, however, and believe her only to be a shapeshifter.

**Dorian** : Whether it's fate grinning or the Maker displaying his boundless sense of humour, the necromancer can also, incidentally, control shadows. All the better to paint the cliche of the "big, bad, Tevinter magister." Darkness curls at his whim, lash out at his command, swallow enemies whole in particularly dark places. It works terrifyingly well with his other spells. Instill fear into the hearts of enemies? Easier when living shadows snake up from the ground and wrap around their throats. Fade step to get out of danger? Easy. Just melt into the shadow and reappear somewhere else. (Rather taxing though, he wouldn't recommend it. Drained all his mana once.) But it also had one downside that makes Dorian almost hesitant to use it. Every time he channels his dominion over shadows, whispers from the Fade, from demons pushing at the veil for the chance to gain a foothold in his mind, grow steadily louder in his head. For anyone, it would be a trifle matter. For a mage like Dorian, it's reason enough for him to stick to simply burning things.

**Solas** : For someone who walks the Fade in his dreams so often, it's no surprise when Solas just...enters someone else's dream. He can make himself known, or simply stay in the background, a by-stander in the world created by someone's unconscious mind. And he can alter it. With a thought, he can flatten mountains and raise seas. He can recreate memories he saw in the Fade, or fabricate new ones from his own imagination. A small magic, compared to what others can do, so perhaps it was the reason why he didn't suffer any of the drawbacks. But people don't often think about the nightmares he can create with a thought. Of making a person so afraid of going to sleep that it destroys their minds. Of calling not only spirits, but demons to haunt dreams. Of repeating a dream often enough that it becomes memory, until it becomes fact. But of course, the hedge mage can only visit dreams. Nothing more than that. And he obviously can't conjure such illusions in the waking world. What kind of fanciful trick would that be? Certainly not one able to be done by an elven apostate.

**Vivienne** : It is no secret that Madame de Fer can freeze someone solid in a matter of seconds, cage them with thick ice with a flick of the wrist. But her true talent, lies beyond that. Compelling the body, the muscles, the sinew and fiber, the very nerves that make people tick, to freeze. She can force them to stop in the middle of a hit, hold their bodies in place, prevent a fatal blow. Alone, it isn't much help, as the momentum continues the moment she relinquishes her hold. But in the battlefield with the Inquisitor and the soldiers? It becomes irreplaceable. As long as she maintains line of sight. As long as she has an abundance of mana to spare. As long as Vivienne stays as still as her victims. As long as she doesn't breathe. She can turn entire battalions into silent statues.

**Varric** : Dwarves can't learn normal magic. This barely qualifies as magic, actually. And is more than slightly ironic. He can detect lies. He would have laughed when he realized it. A tingle starts in the centre of his back and spreads out like a spider's web, followed by the frankly debilitating downsides for such a minor power. The aftermath of even a minute of using it left a vicious cold forcing him to be bedridden for days. Of course, the power doesn't work if he's told a half-truth. Or if the subject in question is evaded. Or if the person just really, genuinely, believes they're telling the truth. Honestly, there were more cons than pros. He doesn't use it. Though there were instances when he wished he did.

**Sera** : She doesn't like magic, but hers doesn't feel like magic. It's like seeing through a glass bottle. Wobbly. Makes her eyes hurt. Gives her aches in places. But it's simple. She starts it up, like pulling the string from her bow, and suddenly, she can see farther, past the horizon. It makes her aim clearer, gives her a shot at getting the first shot. It's easy to use and it's simple. No fancy-schmancy magic rituals. Not that hard to remember the trajectory either. And once she figures out exactly where to shoot, she doesn't need to use it anymore. She's a damn good shot with, or without aim assisting somewhat-magic. It just helps her sometimes.

**Blackwall** : Combined with his shield, it makes for a useful power. Blackwall can absorb the force of every hit he takes and send it out in a pulse of pure energy. Oftentimes, he just raises his shield and allows the hits to rain down. And, when that magic itches to be released, he simply allows it to, throwing even the largest of opponents back. It staggers him, though. Leaves him vulnerable for a few precious seconds and makes him forget which way is up, and which way is down. But when he's with people ready to back him up, provide cover and ensure that he doesn't get stabbed in the few moments he needs to right himself, it's a valuable asset. Still, the feeling leaves much to be desired, and he doesn't use it unless he has to.

**Cullen** : It developed much later than most, and would have been infinitely more useful if it had manifested in his earlier years. For a precious few moments each day, Cullen can completely block his mind. From nightmares. From the temptation of demons. From magic that controlled the mind. From the song of lyrium. All of it, shut out, like a barrier placed between his mind, and anything that might try to enter and harm it. It only surfaced after his time in Kirkwall, and it's always a challenge to use it. It gives him a terrible headache, like someone screamed at the top of their lungs right beside his ear. Still, when things become too much, Cullen uses it. It only lasts for an hour at most every day, but sometimes, an hour is more than enough.

**Bull** : He doesn't like using it. Shutting down physical and mental sensations dampens the thrill of battle, the pleasure in sex, the pain of having a raging High Dragon slam her tail directly at him and send him flying. Even the mental stuff. The pang of worry that always flares up when he sees Krem take a harsh blow. The pride at seeing his Chargers tear through enemy forces. All of it, gone. If the Chargers survive, he has no need to use it, and carries on every battle feeling every hit and enjoying every second of it. If the Chargers die, though, he doesn't hesitate to use it. It numbs the pain when he sees their bodies broken and bloody on the hill. And once he submits to the re-educators again, he doesn't stop using it. It's easy. All it does to him is shut out the real world. And he wants that.


	5. Inquisitor Lavellan (Fel)

Felandaris Lavellan

His name came from the plant, Felandaris. Demon weed. It's not because of any ill will, though, and he chuckles every time someone asks. It's a story he's more than willing to tell.

"I was told that mother was an herbalist. Absolutely loved the plants, kept a small garden and everything. She worked with it more than most, and even named her only son after it."

He doesn't say that she would have named her other children after Embrium, or Witherstalk. He doesn't say that she was killed when Fel could barely even stand on his own two feet. He doesn't say that he sees his mother's killers on the face of every shemlen he sees.

It's why humans rarely earn his trust.

He knows he has to learn to get past that distrust, though, considering he fights with them on the battlefield.

But it's still hard to force himself to fight against every instinct he learned travelling with his clan, to lead the party with his back exposed for an arrow, or a dagger, or a sword.

Still. Shemlen or not, it's unfair for him to hate someone simply because their ears weren't pointed. Disagreements were inevitable, but he tries not to be antagonistic without due cause, tries to keep his anger and temper in check. If nothing else, it's bad for morale when the Inquisitor constantly argues with his Inner Circle.

So he tries his best to laugh. Joke around and flirt playfully, make quips and banter and be as light-hearted as he possibly can to lift the atmosphere. Take minds off of the war they're fighting. He still remains honest and forthcoming, absolutely detests the wordplay and circumlocution of Orlais, and prefers to be straight and to the point. But he learns to smile even when all he wants to do is bash his shield on someone's head. Build a mask of someone who smiles in the face of danger.

Making decisions is difficult for him though. He was never a leader, only a warrior protecting the Clan from raiders, mercenaries, and the occasional vicious woodland creature. So he relies on his instincts, on his emotions. He does what he thinks is right, even if it won't be the best course of action for the Inquisition. He's willing to sacrifice a potential alliance to protect the elves in an alienage in a city he's never been in. He's willing to save the lives of the soldiers even if it means that he'll have to work twice as hard to make up for their retreat. He never puts his life above anyone else's.

For a warrior who can bat away opponents bigger than him like they were made of straw, Fel is soft. As much as possible, he does everything he can to help in even the smallest of ways. From hunting ram to keep refugees well-fed, to bringing flowers to a grave far enough to give old bones a pause. A smile always crawls on his face every time he manages to ease lives even by just a fraction. He tries to help elves, mostly.

Flat-ears weren't Dalish but they were still elves. And Fel ensures that they have enough food and as much comfort as they can have. He brings paint for their venadahl, and carves wooden halla for the children. And, if they were interested, he more than happily tells any story he remembers of the ancient Elvhen. Sings them lullabies with words of the ancient tongue. Teaches them all the words he can remember. City elves weren't Dalish. But they remind Fel of home more than anything else.

It also gives him something to do when the weight of his decisions come bearing down on him.

Easier not to collapse from the guilt and stress, from the regret and doubt borne from his own decisions, when he was busy explaining what an aravel was to a young city elf child with eyes full of innocence he wished he still had.


	6. Inquisitor Lavellan (Ash)

Ashwyn Lavellan

Ashwyn lost before the she even began.

All of Thedas put her on a pedestal. Willing to venerate and vilify, willing to elevate and execute. A mage amidst a mage rebellion. An elf amidst shemlen. A Dalish leader for the very religion responsible for destroying her culture.

And she had no choice but to survive.

So she changed. All the knowledge she's learned over the course of her life; trading, fighting, and (should the occasion benefit) helping humans, is put to use. Ashwyn donned a mask and played the Game.

While it isn't exactly the Game constantly waged in Orlais, it's not so dissimilar. Ashwyn watches her words as closely as she watches her actions. She becomes less "Ashwyn" and more "Inquisitor".

Everything she does, every look she gives, is measured and calculated. She needs to be seen in nothing less than the best light. She represents more than herself, more than the Inquisition, and she will not have ignorant humans slander her people and call the Dalish barbarians.

The Inquisition under Ashwyn's leadership becomes one associated with mercy and justice. People gathered under one banner with the sole purpose of restoring order to Thedas. The Inquisitor is seen as a Dalish oddly familiar with human customs, paying proper respects to Orlesian nobles and engaging in friendly hunts with Ferelden lords.

 

While the Inquisition thrives under the watchful eye of the Inquisitor, Ashwyn suffers.

She hides the frustration every time potential allies look at her tattoos with disdain. She holds her tongue at every snide remark and disturbing grin sent her way. She smiles and bows to the shemlen pretending to be better than her simply on the account that her ears are pointed. And seethes.

The Inquisitor is kind, understanding of the humans and their civilised ways. Lavellan is angry, vengeful. Envious. She wants the respect shown to her to be shown to all elves. She wants the humans to stop seeing elves as lesser. She wants her people to be able to live freely without the fear of being butchered or enslaved.

The Inquisition is her tool to get what she wants.

She'll stop Corypheus, there's no question. But she'll make sure to use her power to protect her people first.

"Elgar'nan give me strength," she prays to herself at night, quietly. "Guide my path. Dirthamen, uncloud my eyes. Help me see true. The Inquisition is a tool. Creators, help me use it."

"The Inquisition is a tool," she repeats, growing more doubtful each night, Lavellan slipping further and further away.

What was she even like, before becoming the Inquisitor?


	7. Before The Breach (Inquisitors Adaar, Ash and Fel Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "what did your inquisitors do before becoming the herald/inquisitor?"

**Arenis Adaar** : She did what mercenaries did. Odd jobs here and there. Most of it was solitary work: bodyguard for a rich man, scout for hunting party, extra muscle for a band of merchants. Very few instances required all of the Valo-Kas mercenaries, but those jobs were the best. Nothing beats facing down hordes of darkspawn or an entourage of demons. Life just isn't complete without a dozen vashothari's rattling battlecries on the battlefield. But that's all she did. Mercenary work. The Inquisition gives her a purpose that didn't involve just getting paid. It's a pleasant change.

**Felandaris Lavellan** : City elves were "flat-ears" in the eyes of most of the Dalish Regardless, Fel helps the alienages in small, no-name hamlets. Sneaks in to human cities armed with nothing but a pack of supplies. He tries to bring in a bit of everything. Food, water, leather, fur, medicine, and herbs. Toys weren't as needed, but they can provide comfort for the children who have none. And, if the Hahren of the alienage permits it, he meets with the parents of mage children. Those who refuse to have their child taken to the Circle hand them to his care. It always takes a while to convince the Keeper, but Clan Lavellan never has want for mages, and ensures that no clan is without either.

**Ashwyn Lavellan** : Magic is abnormally strong with her, enough that crops grow faster, yield more, and flourish by simply being in her presence. Naturally, she became First. She works closely with the Keeper, learning all so that she may pass it down to the clan in the future. Trades with shemlen are frequent, and she quickly learned how to barter. Her excess of magic made her a great teacher, as she can expend a lot of mana without tiring. Oftentimes, she actively uses her magic to help grow the planters the Dalish keep while simultaneously teaching young elves how to cast spells. She maintains protective wards around camp to ensure that no human trespasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently, there are multiple currencies in thedas? Ferelden Sovereigns, Orlesian Royals, Nevarran King's Gulders, and Anders Double Griffons. i sure as fuck didn't know that.
> 
> on an unrelated note, i fucking refuse to accept that the Dalish only keep 3 mages in a clan. that is a load of hallashit.


	8. Weapons (Inquisitors)

**Arenis Adaar** : A Qunari's horn was sharp and strong. Enough that it could be used as the blade of a dagger. Arenis had one dagger fashioned from the horns forcibly snapped off two different Tal-Vashoth. The austere grip was made from wood and leather, nondescript and plain. It had grooves where the horns were attached to both ends of the dagger. One was longer than the other, curved sharply near the end, and had grooves in the keratin. The other was smaller, bent, and thicker. Arenis refused to sharpen the dagger, afraid that it would deform the horns adorning it. Shokrakar told her the horns belonged to her parents. They could never replace Shokrakar herself, but still. Arenis keeps it close, and imagines a world where her parents weren't dragged back screaming to a life they never wanted in Par Vollen.

**Felandaris Lavellan** : He had no attachments to his sword. It's merely that: a sword. A tool meant to keep him and his clan safe. Sometimes, it shattered, especially in the heat of facing demons that would happily destroy it. Replacing the sword with anything was common. Shemlen bandits often had weapons with them he pilfered. Traders often handed their swords over in exchange for gloves and boots of Dalish make. But his shield never left his side. Ironbark, reinforced with carved halla horns and painted in vivid colours. A gift, from his previous clan before he was given to Clan Lavellan. It withstood the test of time, still as sturdy as ever.

**Ashwyn Lavellan** : A longsword's hilt was strapped to her back. Only the hilt. Ironbark with halla horns for the guard. The pommel was more decorative than functional, a gleaming stone pulsing with energy. But when she holds it in her hands, lets her magic flow, she manifests a blade of ice. It's easy swinging a hilt around. The magical blade follows, cleaving anything in its path. When it shatters, she reforms it with the same shards. All the while, the stone at the pommel focuses her magic, lets her rain lightning and fire down even as she maintains the blade. Ashwyn carries more than just that hilt, however. To her belt, she has strapped daggers and throwing knives, in case a templar ever shows.


	9. Inquisitor Cadash

Kada Cadash

Smuggler, thief, con-artist, liar, and pickpocket. Kada filled many roles working for the carta. Taking up the mantle as "Inquisitor" was just one of the better ones. A lot more stable too. Smuggling lyrium was profitable, but being caught in the wrong place in the wrong time can mean imprisonment. Or worse, death. Kada can't afford that.

Josephine once asked her in Haven, in that dingy office lit by only a few candles. "I do need to know the extent of your involvement in the Carta's activities." Her pen was poised over the paper ready to spin the truth into a somehow flattering tale of the dwarven Herald.

"I did whatever I needed to do," Kada had replied, no trace of apology in her voice. Only truth. Only conviction. "Not everyone grew up with a title and three square meals a day."

And besides, Kada had more than herself to live for.

Despite all that Leliana dug up on her involvement, Kada's most precious secret remained hidden. All of them. Children she adopted and raised as her own, as best as she possibly can. Orphans picked up from the street, runaways from homes that don't deserve them. The misfits, the outcasts. They were the ones in the forefront of Kada's mind when she went into battle. They were the ones she thought of when faced with a decision.

For the first time in her life, she was plagued by nightmares as a result from the Anchor. The Fade came to her in her dreams, a green hell that robbed her of sleep. She had to lead an entire organization and bear the weight of her decisions. And she does it all in stride. Failing the Inquisition would bring doom upon everyone, including her children. That, admittedly, was the only reason she stayed to fight.

She's not as young anymore. Not much of a risk-taker, not much of an adventurer. She preferred the safe route, to err on the side of caution and to always have a fallback when things go south. Have a backup plan for the backup plan for the backup plan. Never go into anything without knowing as much about it as she possibly can. She needed to lead her forces, but she also had to stay alive. She wanted to go back to her children.

Although she wasn't a member of the Carta anymore after becoming Inquisitor, it's hard to let go of what she's learned. Poisons are a common tool found in her bag. Any and every connection she made during her time with the Carta is put to use, albeit discreetly. She has friends in low places, all around Southern Thedas, and when the situation calls for it, she makes use of them. Small tips to smugglers to protect their cargo in exchange for any information they pick up along the route. Gold for the rogues in exchange for getting rid of an enemy. Information for the businessmen to attack rivals with in exchange for connections and supplies.

Kada was ruthless, and she remained ruthless. The Inquisition never went to battle underprepared. They were always armed with secrets, weapons, and connections to powerful people.

Carta blood runs in her veins. But she was also a mother. And even her pragmatism crumbles at the face of a child asking her to tell stories. Refugees in the Hinterlands with small children tucked close to their side received aid immediately.

Kada was a smuggler, thief, con-artist, liar, pickpocket, and the Inquisitor. She's filled all those roles perfectly. But, before all else, she's a mother first.


	10. Pulse (Ashwyn Lavellan)

Static hummed in the air, light crackles of green light in an otherwise quiet walk along the Hinterlands. Immediately, Solas threw a barrier, Cassandra and Varric readying their weapons in preparation for a mage ambush.

"I sense a great deal of magical energy," Solas observed, fingers drumming along his staff. His ears twitched just slightly, giving away the anxiousness not shown on his face. "It is wild, unfocused, but incredibly strong. I suggest we prepare ourselves for a difficult battle."

Were she with her Clan, Ashwyn would have flushed with embarrassment. Instead, she simply cleared her throat. "Everyone, please relax. We're not under attack. I simply forgot to discharge my magic."

Solas's impassive face did quirk an eyebrow at this. A gesture that Varric mimicked. Cassandra's brows simply furrowed. It looked like a grimace.

Ashwyn held out her right hand, palm-up. She didn't need to concentrate. Magic swelled within her, forming into a glowing ball of energy in her hand. With one smooth movement, she closed her fist, and the ball shattered. Magic poured over the the surrounding area, a dam of energy let loose.

It was a heartbeat, pulsing in rhythm to an inaudible tune. Faint green lines snaked along the ground from where Ashwyn stood. A blanket of magic that brought with it a feeling of tranquility and peace. Ashwyn allowed herself to release more pulses of magic until the static in the air ceased. The crackling lights winked out of existence and all traces of magic died out with the last pulse, leaving behind only a faint smell of frost.

"Tell me that wasn't a beacon broadcasting our location." Varric sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Snowflake, it's very calming. You could make a fortune doing that to pampered Orlesian nobles, but I'd rather not get caught between the mages or templars while they're fighting in this little war of theirs."

"For once, I agree with Varric," Cassandra followed, eyes narrowing. "The magic is gone, as far as I could tell, but what exactly is it that you did?"

Before Ashwyn could reply, Solas interjected, easing back into a neutral stance. "I don't believe it has any negative effect. Think of it as someone emptying a vase before it becomes too full. Water laps at your feet, but is otherwise harmless."

"Thank you for that explanation, Solas." Ashwyn smiled at Cassandra and Varric. "As he said, it's harmless. Just something I need to do every few hours to keep my magic from overflowing. Don't worry about it." She resumed walking. If they were going to question her, they might as well be covering ground.

Varric slung Bianca back over his back. "So," he began, the gears in his head whirling. Part of his brain was dedicated to writing and this was a situation that surely incited curiosity. "What happens if you don't let your magic discharge?"

Ashwyn shrugged. "I don't exactly know. I've never let myself get past that point. Keeper Deshanna always reminded me to discharge it before it overflows."

After a few more paces, Cassandra sheathed her sword. "How do you when it is time to...?"

"Well, as you've seen, static gathers in the air. A sure sign I should do it soon. Otherwise, I just rely on keeping time." Ashwyn pursed her lips. "I don't have to do it as often if I use my magic in a fight though. Seems like there's plenty for me to do with it."

Satisfied, Cassandra nodded and walked with an easier pace. Neither she nor Varric seemed to have any more questions for her. At least, not right now. Varric might have some, considering Ashwyn was sure he was definitely writing a book as they travelled.

And Solas.

His face remained neutral, but Ashwyn's had enough conversations with him to know that he, too, was curious. Ashwyn and Solas talked about magic and the fade quite often. Undoubtedly, there would be another conversation once they returned to Haven.

She didn't exactly mind.


	11. Romance (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "who did your Inquisitor romance?"

Arenis: For a qunari who could steal lives in the blink of an eye, Arenis valued the subtle art of diplomacy. Ending a fight without shedding blood took a delicate hand. Preventing a fight from even happening was art. And one Josephine Montilyet excelled in that art. Arenis fell the moment Josephine manoeuvred the Marquis DuRellion into cooperating with the Inquisition in Haven. Josephine was clever, and favoured diplomacy to violence. Arenis admired that and was completely taken. Of course, she consulted with Leliana first, ensuring that she would do her damnedest to ensure that she gives Josephine the best she possibly can.

Felandaris: At first, Fel's reaction to Dorian was to punch the wall mere inches from his face. Anger and indignation at Dorian's ignorance, his flippant attitude, his love for a country that brought Fel's culture to ruin. Then, Dorian apologized. Asked to learn more of Fel and the Dalish. Tried to be more conscientious of how he speaks and acts. Then, Dorian spoke of Tevinter. What he loved, and what he wanted to change. Dorian understood his faults, his country's faults, and owned up to his mistakes. It's after these conversations that Fel entertained having a relationship with Dorian. It's a rocky start, both sides working to meet in the middle, but they make it work.

Ashwyn: It was his stories that captured her first. The tales of the Fade, twisting to match one's imagination, of stories lost to time, experienced through a dream. Spirits and their nature, how it differed from what she was taught, what the rest of the world was taught. But importantly, his stories of magic. All it was were innocent conversations at first. Magical theories, techniques, and history. Then, they began to talk about more than magic, more than the Fade. Ashwyn sought out Solas' company simply because it was his company. Then Solas met her in dreams, and kissed her in the Fade. She was long gone by then.


	12. Felandaris of the Dalish (Codex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: write a codex entry for your Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: in this context, Felandaris is written as part of the Inner Circle

As per your request, I looked into the background of the Dalish warrior the Inquisitor recruited in the Graves. If he's truly from clan "Lavellan," then he's a long way from home. The Clan was camped in the Free Marches, on the outskirts of Wycome last I saw. From what I've seen, they aren't apparently hostile and readily trade with humans down the road. None of the clan seems to share the animosity towards humans displayed in this "Felandaris."

I approached under the guise of trading, and asked around. Felandaris doesn't seem to be lying as several members of the clan knew him, even asking for his health and whereabouts. (I did not say, and only claimed to meet him on the road as we traded goods.) He did not seem to lie about belonging to clan Lavellan, though I am unsure if he has told the complete truth.

Despite my asking, I uncovered very little of Felandaris. The clan, however reserved they are, seems to talk of Felandaris like proud mothers at a gathering. He's a vicious warrior, carves a lot of wooden figures for toys and trade, has extensive knowledge of edible flora, and that he earned his vallaslin at a younger age than most. All things considered, not enough to gain a clearer picture of him. I did, however, eavesdrop on a conversation between two of the clan's hunters.

According to them, Felandaris left in pursuit of another elf in their clan. A mage of ample talent and skill, who left for reasons I have yet to discover. Felandaris left with the intent of protecting the runaway mage from any and all harm, and of returning her back to clan Lavellan unharmed and well. The mage's destination, however, was Ostwick, leagues away from the Emerald Graves.

It's not the first time Felandaris had been away from the camp, as they don't seem concerned about it. What piqued my curiosity however, was that the hunters were convinced that Felandaris was...amiable. From what I've heard, they spoke of Felandaris as one of their best negotiators, always at the front of any human trade. This skill was what probably kept him and his mage companion from running out of supplies. However, there's something odd, about these accounts.

For one, the Inquisitor didn't find this mage companion of his. And I met Felandaris before I left for this mission, briefly. Tried to ask him a few things, but he took one look at my ears, saw they weren't pointed, and a look of...something, crossed his face. Not hatred, but I'm absolutely sure it wasn't anything pleasant. I'm not doubting his willingness to fight Corypheus, not doubting his desire to help people either, but I don't think he's as honest as he seems to be.

Wish I figured out more.

_\--letter to L. from an unknown author_


	13. Everyone Has Unique Magic AU (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the inquisitors this time. yay.

**Arenis Adaar** : After they learn of her training, people often ask her 'how does a qunari become an assassin? don't you get spotted easily?' to which she always replies 'never' with a shit-eating grin. It's not about pulling shadows around her, or going into stealth. It's not about keeping herself quiet as she skulks undetected. It's not about misdirection, never being where she's expected to be. Her power is simple, yet effective. She simply redirects attention. Enemies pay less attention to her, annoying nobles find other people to pester. Arenis can simply make herself less noticeable, shift from the protagonist to being a simple background character. Still there, still visible, but much less interesting, much less likely to be deemed as worthy or important. It's useful in battle, and when she wants to be left alone in a crowded room. It does impair her own senses though. Everything around her becomes white noise, even something as vital as a knife being unsheathed. It makes her slow to react, slow to pick up on things, damages her perceptiveness, until she fully undoes its effects.

**Felandaris Lavellan** : At first, it seems like he doesn't have any powers. When in battle, he just charges in like he usually does, without any fancy tricks. For all the subtlety he lacks in literally any other aspect of his life, he takes great care not to reveal his power. Pain, whether physical, mental, or emotional, can be transferred. More specifically, he can transfer the pain of others to himself. It's a one-way connection; he can never pour his own pain into someone else, nor does he want to. All he needs to do is touch someone, just briefly, and all the pain they feel in that moment can be whisked away in the blink of an eye. It does nothing for wounds, or memories; only lightens them up, makes it easier for them to deal with life and its struggles. Of course, for all the good he does others, taking on the burdens of other people is draining. At times, he would lie in bed, shaking as guilt, sadness, anger, regret, emotions that weren't his, wracked his body and mind. It hurts, of course. But if he can make life easier for the people he cares about, it's only a small price to pay.

**Ashwyn Lavellan** : There is no greater horror than fighting Ashwyn in the woods. Her posture loosens, her eyes becomes sharper, and her magic more dangerous. It doesn't take much effort for Ashwyn to use her gifts and pour her mana into her surroundings, into the grass and the flowers and the trees. Foliage wrapping around her enemies and dragging them down to the dirt, sharp branches clawing and tearing through armor, poisonous spores choking any who fought her. The forest bowed to her will. All she had to do was bleed for it. Let the ground take hold of her as well, vines crawling up her legs, wrapping around her limbs. The thorns piercing her flesh and drinking her blood. It hurts worse than any injury in battle; it was like fire in her veins, a searing pain that burned all the way to her soul. But it works, and as long as it continues to work, she will continue to bear the burden.

**Kada Cadash** : She grew up on the surface, away from Orzammar and its traditions, away from the Stone. Still, there's a connection there, deep and powerful, more than worship, more than belief. Undoubtedly, there were dwarves that would kill for her power. If she took her shoes off, let her bare feet touch the ground, she can feel everything around her. Every footstep of every soldier, of every animal, of every tiny ant. She feels it, knows where it is, what it's doing. It's invaluable as a navigational tool, better when gauging enemy numbers. But her connection to the earth heightens, her vision dims. It starts off slow, right at the edges, then darkens more and more. Then, at the height of her power, she is rendered completely blind. Fighting without shoes on as a dwarf leads to getting stepped on. She rarely has the opportunity to use her power yet even if she did, she doesn't want to. As she becomes more attuned with the earth, her vision begins to grey, even when she wasn't using her power. She doesn't want to lose her eyesight; how could she ever see her children?


	14. Tattoos (Dorian x Male Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vallaslin marked more than just his face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i write dialogue? no.  
> can i write dorian? hell no.  
> am i going to write this self-indulgent fluff piece? fuck yeah baby

 

The first time Dorian noticed, truly noticed, Fel's vallaslin, was after Fel met with the Dalish clan camped near the river. Fel had insisted that the group track down the Keeper's First, who ran off to the Emerald Graves. Needless to say, the four of them were ass-deep in the woods, with nothing but a small fire to keep away any wild animals. Solas and Varric slept soundly in their own tents, while Dorian and Fel stayed awake. Dorian because he had first watch, and Fel simply because he missed the woods.

The campfire illuminated Fel's face, and Dorian's curiosity won out. "So the markings on your face are some form of Dalish ritual?"

Fel blinked, then smiled at the fire so softly Dorian wouldn't have seen it if he wasn't looking. "The vallaslin. They're the mark of adulthood. A symbol that we're no longer children. I got mine when I was fifteen, I think."

The look on Fel's face was familiar to Dorian. It was homesickness. For all the smiles and jests and playful banter, Fel missed his clan, wherever they may be. So Dorian continued. The least he could do was offer a distraction. "The Dalish we saw back at the Exalted Plains had similar markings. Though none quite like yours. Does it differ from clan to clan?"

At this, Fel brightened, just a bit. His posture straightened out, and he stopped making sad puppy eyes at the fire. "There's this clan we ran into near Kirkwall. They had completely different markings than the ones we have, but there were some similar motifs. Pretty sure all the years apart made clans gradually create their own unique markings for the Creators."

"And these markings honour your Creators?"

Fel traced his face with one hand, effortlessly following the path his vallaslin took. "Yes. Mine is for Mythal. The protector. The all-mother."

Dorian hummed, following every curve, every line of green adorning Fel's face. "There are designs for each and every one of your gods, I assume."

"Yes!" Fel replied, excitedly, perhaps too loudly. Thankfully, neither Varric nor Solas awoke. Fel prattled off after that exclamation, regaling Dorian of the tales of his gods, the stories Fel was taught as a child, what each god represented.

Dorian found himself looking more at Felandaris than the markings the elf crudely traced in the dirt.

-

The second time Dorian was drawn to Fel's vallaslin, was after they fought the Fereldan Frostback. In all fairness, Dorian didn't mean to talk about it. They just finished fighting a dragon. And while Bull was huffing and grinning widely, none of them shared the same sentiment.

But Fel, being the bastard idiot that he is, kept taking hits meant for other people, putting his shield up and standing in front of Dorian, in front of Varric, in front of Bull. Surprisingly, his shield made it out of the fight unscathed; whatever it was made of, it was sturdy. Fel, however, bore bruises, burns, and cuts that even healing potions couldn't completely mend.

And his clothing.

Who would have thought that fire burned clothes? The upper part of Fel's armor was scorched right off, revealing scarred pale skin. And more of the vallaslin. The green lines spread out from Fel's neck, curling into the mesmerizing patterns as they spanned across his shoulder blades. The vallaslin curled around Fel's muscles, snaking around his arms, draping down his back. They were similar to the pattern on Fel's face, thin lines intersecting with one another, a tribute to Mythal.

There were several scars on Fel's back and arms. Most of the scars were new, and cut through the meticulously done tattoos. A deep gash running across Fel's back, several smaller scars that broke up the green lines. But some, horrifyingly enough, were scarred before the tattoos were done. Raised skin and dark marks where the green ran over.

The vallaslin covered almost all of Fel's skin. His shoulders, his sides, even the center of his back. The rest of his tattoos disappeared beneath the remains of Fel's clothes.

"You're the best, boss," Bull groaned, in what was probably the most inappropriate noise Dorian's ever heard of in his life. "Taarsidath an-halsam."

Varric made a noise that was between a scoff and a chuckle. "That high dragon damn near killed us and you're jumping for joy over there? I'll never understand you, Tiny."

Fel stabbed his sword into the dirt and sat beside it. "I liked these clothes," he grumbled angrily to himself. Whatever discussion Bull and Varric were going to have was cut short as Fel ripped the remains of his shirt off. He twisted the cloth together, and used it as a makeshift bandage for the cut on his side that the potion couldn't quite close all the way.

"We can all question Bull and his enthusiasm later. Right now, I want to rest and make sure I don't bleed to death. Sound good?"

Dorian isn't a healer. Restoring living things is in direct opposition to what he does. Still, he sat by Fel and poured what little mana he had left into sealing the wound. "Quite. Last thing we want, is to disappoint Corypheus by having his archnemesis die of exsanguination."

Fel laughed, light and airy. Dorian kept his eyes on the wound he was trying to close, but ever so often, Dorian's eyes would wander, and trace the vallaslin.

-

The third time Dorian couldn't keep his eyes off Fel's vallaslin, was after they had sex for the first time. Sweat clung to their bodies, a heady scent permeating the air, the covers of Fel's blankets sticking to their skin. Well, sticking to Dorian's, anyway. Fel savagely kicked the blankets off of him as soon as he fell asleep. Any of Dorian's attempts to wrap the blankets around the elf ended with inhuman growls and muttered Dalish words that were surely curses.

So, while Fel slept with his legs tangled up in Dorian's, Dorian stayed awake, and admired Fel's naked body, and the subtle movements as the elf breathed.

As he suspected, the vallaslin covered every inch of Fel. The lines that swirled from the nape of Fel's neck draped over to his throat. A series of curved lines wrapping around Fel's neck, a collar of green that flared out into the rest of the tattoos on his chest. It marked complicated roads downwards. Parts of the patterns on Fel's face was replicated on his hips, with the lines steadily creeping around his thigh, and down to his legs. His ankles and wrists bore the same lines as his throat, and Dorian _can't stop staring_ at them.

He can't resist touching, either, as one of his hands unconsciously ghosted over Fel's chest. Dorian mapped out his body once more, tracing the lines with his fingers, running it up and down Fel's stomach, over the scars, and over the vallaslin.

"Why're you still awake?" Fel grumbled, blearily opening his eyes. He looked about two inches from Dorian's face. "Something wrong?"

"No, no!" Dorian was quick to smile. "Just admiring the view. And the crafstmanship."

A lazy smile spread across Fel's face. Content, affection, and pride. Pride at the vallaslin. Pride that Dorian admired it as much as Fel did.

"Believe it or not, these ones are optional," Fel yawned. "I only had to get the face but I figured what the fuck. Might as well get the rest of me done too.

"Now sleep, Dorian. You can admire the vallaslin tomorrow. They look better in the morning."

And without waiting for Dorian's response, Fel curled closer, wrapped his arms around Dorian, and fell back to sleep.

Dorian hasn't slept a night after sex. He always left before the morning, never to speak of anything ever again. But Fel was different. And, honestly, Dorian wanted to see those tattoos every morning when he wakes up.

So, with the darkness hiding his smile, Dorian hugged Fel tight and closed his eyes.


	15. Children (Kada Cadash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kada has a lot of children, that she just adores and misses terribly. After becoming Inquisitor, she finds one more lost soul.

Kada was one of the carta's best. She had connections, wealth, and, above all, multiple houses. While the carta knew of most of her safehouses, there was one house no one else knows about. A large human-sized home that continuously expands, far east of the storm coast. Most of Kada's resources and money went into the expansion and protection of this house. It was large and colorful, with reinforced windows and steel-backed doors. There were three kitchens, two large living rooms, a sprawling backyard garden, a training area near the house, workbenches and pottery tools, paints, and whatever else was needed. The multiple bedrooms were all customised for each of her children, however far they may be. The Storm Coast safehouse was always a place where they can return home.

Ages

Kada Cadash: 51  
Edra Tilban Cadash: 34  
Gartek Merol: 25  
Isskari Cadash: 19  
Francisca Strausse Cadash: 3  
Catarina Mignard: 22  
Cardin Ybaness: 34  
Elora Talim: 29  
Solan Vaharel Arahash: 29  
Basi Cadash: 16  
??: ??

-

Edra: It was an accident. There was a minor earthquake in the deep roads, a cave collapsed and flooded the entire cave with sunlight. Edra was just one of the few unfortunate enough to have caught a glimpse of the surface, and thus, exiled. Alone. A smith father and a warrior mother weren't going to give up their lives for one child sentenced to live alone in the surface. She would have died. Yet Kada, much younger then -only seventeen- brought Edra to be part of the Cadash family. At first, Edra refused. She was from house Tilban, proud warriors from Orzammar; she would not take on the name of a surfacer. Despite that, Kada continued to care for her. Edra received education from tutors all over the world with the payment Kada got from smuggling lyrium. Warriors from Orlais were brought in to train her in all sorts of weaponry. Edra can't quite remember when she called Kada "mom" for the first time. She only remembered a fiercely proud smile and teary eyes. (Edra might have been the one who initiated the hug. She can never remember. Even if she did, like hell she would admit it.)

When Edra was seventeen, she joined the Carta, following in her mother's footsteps. Obviously, Kada did not approve, but still, she supported her daughter as best she can. Soon enough, Kada and Edra Cadash were two of the most successful members of the Carta. Even after Kada was sent to the Conclave decades later, Edra continued to work in the Carta. Of course, Kada brought in more children since then, and as much as Edra didn't want to admit it, she became fond of them as well. Her little brothers and sisters and Gartek, all of them were her family. Even though some of them (Isskari, the fucking bastard) stood unfairly tall over her. When Kada became Inquisitor, Edra lied low. Lyrium was the big topic of debate and she didn't want to see any of her mother's soldiers during a run. So, she took smaller jobs; protecting caravans, and delivering important packages. Some of those packages came from Kada's children; letters and small gifts that Edra, being the smuggler that she is, slipped into Inquisition packages meant for her mother. Kada can't send a reply back, not directly anyway, but every once in a while, one Scout Harding would "drop" similar packages for Edra to pick up. And then she just has to write a reply back because no fucking way was there some magister fucker, Corypheus, who was taller than Isskari. She had to know the details.

-

Gartek: A surfacer dwarf who Kada adopted after their parents fell into debt. It's not that they didn't love Gartek; it's that they couldn't give them the life they wanted for them. So, considering Kada adored children and had more than enough money to shower them with affection, they passed Gartek to her. Kada ensured that Gartek had the best they could have. Among which were respect and understanding. Gartek told her when she first brought them to her home near the Storm Coast: "I don't like it when you call me son. Don't call me daughter either." And Kada made sure to introduce them to her other children as "this is Gartek; your new sibling. Be nice to them, please." Gartek never managed to tell her how much that meant to them. Kada was less Gartek's mother though, and more of an aunt. A really nice, understanding aunt that Gartek lived with most of the time. Gartek still visited their parents, from time to time, often to give updates on how their life is going. Their parents don't quite get it, but they try to, and that's enough.

Gartek stayed away from the Carta and instead took up trading. They traded primarily in Ferelden, where Kada could keep an eye out for shady businessmen. After starting up a humble shop, Gartek's parents assisted them in shopkeeping. It's one way to pull Gartek's parents out of debt, while simultaneously giving Gartek ample experience for when they take over. The Carta stayed away from the small shop near the Storm Coast, and Gartek continues to learn the ins and outs of trade. When Kada left for the Conclave, Gartek went across the Waking Sea, establishing a presence in Starkhaven and soon, Kirkwall. Honest trading isn't as lucrative as smuggling, but it gives Gartek access to resources that they otherwise wouldn't have. If some of those resources ends up in the hands of the Inquisition and, consequently, the Inquisitor Aunt Cadash, then that's just a happy accident.

-

Isskari: He's fifteen when she found him, nineteen when she left for the conclave. Yet, he towers over her, seven and a half feet. Eight feet if you count his horn -just horn- curling up at the sky. He was a saarebas that lost control, his magic flaring up and burning away the qunari that controlled him. Without a moment's hesitation, Kada took him to her home, and cared for him like he wasn't a runaway qunari. She broke his chains, and melted his mask down. She carefully removed the stitches keeping his lips together. It took weeks for him to trust Kada. It didn't help that he, a native of seheron, hadn't heard common that often. It was all qunlat, angrily screamed at him as he used his magic for their benefit. Kada, when she can, tries to teach him common. It's a slow process, but one that's worth it when he came to her one night, head down and shoulders hunched; in a soft, heavily accented voice, he said "thank you for saving me". (Kada cried and hugged him. He promised not to tell anyone.)

A few months before Kada left for the conclave, Isskari picked his own name. Still qunlat, as his proficiency in the common tongue is passable at best, yet he said it with pride in his voice and fire in his eyes. It's a rank, a title, of one who retrieves magical artifacts. And, in his case, those magical artifacts were children like him. Saarebas wrapped in chains and stitches. He still gets nightmares of Seheron, nightmares of Par Vollen; he's not prepared to venture that far north yet. But he can help those escaping from captivity. Tamassrans smuggling their charges out of the qun, tal-vashoth breaking away to give their children a better future. Isskari would help them, just as Kada helped him.

-

Francisca: When the circles rebelled, every mage became an apostate, even the young and the inexperienced. Even the children. Francisca's mother was one such apostate. A young mother with a newborn child. A newborn mage. It was Isskari who found Francisca. A towering hulk of a tal-vashoth was better than bloodthirsty templars though, and Francisca's mother handed the child to Isskari, in hopes that the newborn would be spared from certain death. And she was. Isskari took her back to Kada who raised her as best as she could, and remained patient even when the child burned down her favourite silk curtains. She was still too young to be trained, but her magic isn't as uncontrollable as Kada feared. Francisca had a mother who doted on her, a family who kept her away from the templars, and a big brother tal-vashoth who used his magic to create dancing lights over her crib.

When Kada left for the Conclave, Edra took over her mother's role and cared for Francisca. Whenever Edra was on a job, Isskari would watch over her. When he couldn't, it was Cardin. Or Catarina. No matter what, there was always someone in the house to look after Francisca. She does, however, favour Isskari among all her siblings (sometimes even Kada herself). It helps that Isskari can put out the fires Francisca accidentally starts with only a snap of his fingers. (Edra panics too much, Cardin just. Looks like he witnessed a murder, and flails around.)

-

Catarina: She was one of the mages who didn't want to go to war. All she wanted was peace and quiet, space for her to study glyphs and wards, far away from bloodshed. When the templars began hunting them down, she ran. She didn't know enough magic to fight, didn't even want to. Kada found her cornered, a squad of templars edging closer and closer. And with just one look at Catarina's terrified face, Kada loaded up sleeping powder, blasted it at the templars, and lead Catarina to safety. Upon learning that Catarina had nowhere to go, Kada brought her to a home, a place to return to, and welcomed her to a family. It was... a weird family. With smugglers a qunari (tal-vashoth) mage, and a newborn baby who sets curtains on fire. Kada brings in more people once in a while. A would-be templar, a nearly-blind city elf, a haughty Dalish. Even so, they were the family Catarina never had, and she cherished them all.

When Kada got sent to the Conclave, Catarina remained in the safehouse. Being a runaway was still fresh on her mind. Isskari, bless his soul, was young and brave and ventured out even at the atrocities he suffered for simply being a mage, but Catarina can't quite muster up that courage. So, with the war raging around them, Catarina studied and perfected her crafts. A dangerously strong ward encompassed the mansion, barring anyone who weren't Kada's children entry. Even further, were tracing glyphs; anyone who wandered too close was detected and, depending on who was with Catarina at the time, chased off. Should they persist, however, powerful glyphs were set in place, immobilizing anyone who stepped on them. Catarina would keep the house, and her family, safe.

-

Cardin: He was a templar recruit when the mage rebellion shitshow sprang up. Templars were supposed to help mages, protect them, and instead, they were called to hunt down the rebels, execute them as if they were dogs. Cardin left. He already started taking lyrium, but he wasn't fully in the order; not yet. He ran north, towards the Storm Coast, hoping to catch a ferry to the Free Marches, or Rivain, or somewhere not plagued by the war. Instead, he found a dwarf with greying hair and a kind smile who opened up her home to him. There were a couple of mages, but it's not as if he wanted to turn them in. They were only there to live their lives, and weren't hurting anyone. The templars were like family to him, but Kada and her children were like family too. Cardin may not get along with everyone but they were close to his heart nonetheless.

He doesn't stay in the safehouse that often. While he's not a full templar, he did receive training, and that training was useful for work. People pay a lot to have a capable warrior protect them from bandits and rogues. Oftentimes, Cardin leaves the Storm Coast, sometimes even Ferelden, and travels to Orlais, to the Marches, to the Dales, wherever his work takes him. (One time he was sent to the Anderfels. It's a barren fucking desert. He hated it.) Sometimes, he takes months to return, but he always does. He brings gifts too. A new book of wards for Catarina, some toys for Francisca, expensive jewels for Edra. (Edra's a little magpie piece of shit. Don't trust her with anything shiny that isn't nailed down.) It's not the life Cardin expected to have, but it's a life where he's not forced to kill innocent people, at least.

-

Solan: He's Dalish, proud and unbroken. But also stubborn. So stubborn, in fact, that he somehow got the idea of starting a clan on his own after he and his keeper disagreed on several key points of interest. Still, he went through with it, changing his name to that of Vaharel's, one of the Emerald Knights. While Solan, young and foolish, wandered north away from his clan who was camped further south, he came across a shipwreck, with one elf survivor. One of the points Solan disagreed with his keeper, was whether or not city elves deserved help. Solan claimed that they did, while his keeper did not. Solan helped the shipwrecked elf, Elora, and camped near the coast, where no one else can find them. Solan was a gifted hunter and brought back a kill every time, selling whatever was unneeded to merchants, bartering them with passers-by. It just so happened that Solan traded with a dwarven woman who offered up her home to him and any he may want to bring with him. Solan took the offer, both for himself and for Elora.

Solan worked primarily by himself, constructing new aravels and finding new halla to start his own clan. He made sure to stay away from Kada's safehouse to keep anyone from finding it. Most of the time, he sticks around alienages, helping however he can. And, once or twice, a few of the city elves left with him for the woods, where Solan tells all that he can of Dalish lore. He isn't a mage, and he can't be the Keeper because of it, but he insists on keeping the Creators and their customs alive. Everyone should remember and learn, not just the Keeper and the First. He spends most of his time tending to his growing clan, but he does make time to return to Kada's safehouse, especially after Kada left for the Conclave. He may be a bit more distant than most, but he does care for them, like a second family. Besides, Elora stayed home, and he just had to visit her, as well as the rest of the family. Sometimes, Inquisition patrols would find unmarked packages with various medicinal potions and maps leading to some of Corypheus' minions, courtesy of Solan, as a thank you to Kada.

-

Elora: Elves get the worst lot in life. Poverty, disease, abuse. Elora lived through it all. Life was hard when you're an elf, even harder when you can't see shit. She wasn't entirely blind, but not being able to see anything two feet from her still sucked. And in the Kirkwall alienage? Maker have mercy she barely lived. And then, she was caught by slavers. It was a small mercy that instead of being sent north to Tevinter, the ship she was in crashed rather spectacularly on Ferelden soil. Here, she was found by Solan, a Dalish elf wandering the coast. They were close in age, and became fast friends. And soon, more than friends. Elora stayed in his camp, somewhere no shem or elf or vicious beast could find them. Then, Solan returned with someone else, shorter, stockier. A bit heavy on the footsteps but still quiet. She brought Elora out of the woods, into somewhere warm and comfortable. There was a bed, there were more people, but they didn't give her a hard time. They treated her just like she was one of their own, and Elora felt part of a family for the first time in her life.

Although she couldn't see very well, Elora began knitting, and after a while, studied pottery. Kada was quick to set her up with the tools she needed for her new crafts, and Solan was there with encouragement and kisses. Before Kada left for the Conclave, Elora presented her with a warm knitted blanket and several small clay bottles. The blanket was thick and, of course, meant for the cold weather. The bottles were corked and had liquid forms of various medicinal herbs, in case Kada ever needed it. While Elora's new mother-in-law was off being the Inquisitor, Elora stayed in the safehouse, knitting blankets and clothes and making artistic clay pots which get sent to Gartek across the sea to be sold. Elora sings while she works. (Terribly off-key, but she laughs and sings louder if you point it out.)

-

Basi: One of the Cadash family's sons from a very distant relative. Basi unfortunately did not have the same resistance to lyrium as most dwarves, however odd that may be. And the ruthless Cadash crime family had no need for someone who couldn't follow through the family business. So Kada flipped them all her middle finger, and took Basi as her own. He's still young, and doesn't deserve to see whatever bullfuckery the Carta had left to throw at him. He stayed in Kada's safehouse, sometimes he followed Isskari around to see more of the world. (Nothing like a tal-vashoth brother who can and will throw fireballs to keep Basi safe.) Other times, he watched Elora make pottery and knit blankets. Gartek took him to visit their parents once. Basi has an aunt and uncle now, and Gartek teaches Basi some trading techniques every once in a while. Solan showed him how to maintain a proper herb garden, and it quickly became Basi's passion.

He will deny crying when Kada was sent for the Conclave, but he did. Kada didn't lie to him and openly told him of the dangers, but Basi had full faith she would return. Sure, maybe years later, but she will definitely come back. Edra was an amazing sister and snuck in letters to Kada. Fistfuls of them. With some of Basi's little drawings on the margin. Most of the safehouse is stocked from the supplies Gartek sends back, the fresh meat Solan hunts, and the herbs Basi cultivates. If they happen to be lacking in something though, Basi would employ some of the skills Gartek taught him and barter with passing merchants. He's not as good as Gartek, but the pots and blankets Elora made fetched a damn good price. Basi just wanted to help however he can, and keep the safehouse running in his mother's absence. Maybe when she returns, she could just stay home and leave the Carta behind for good.

-

Sera: Kada didn't think she'd find a child in the Inquisition. She expected trained soldiers, spies, and mages. Not Sera. When Kada first saw her, she was reminded of her children. Edra, especially. Sera had the same fire, same attitude, and Kada wished for nothing more than to simply be back home at that moment. Sera was a good shot though, her arrows flying past one right after the other. And for someone right in the middle of war, Sera maintained a cheerful disposition. Then they had cookies on the roof. They were atrocious, but Kada ate them anyway. Then she heard about the Lady Emmald. Kada usually stayed out of noblemen's business. Didn't bother with them much, but by the Maker did she want to sock Lady Emmald in the face when Sera talked about her. To make a child hate herself that much. Kada immediately offered to teach Sera how to bake cookies, right and proper this time. There's more dough-throwing than she would have liked, but Sera laughed so loudly at that she couldn't help but smile.

After the defeat of Corypheus, Kada gave Sera directions to the Storm Coast safehouse. "It's nothing like the Inquisition, but it's home. There's a few mages, but they aren't bad, I promise. Visit whenever you like." And sure, Sera might not remember how to get there, and she might not get along with everyone, but Kada's doors are open. (Sent word in advance to Catarina as well, in case Sera did visit. Don't want to blast her off with the glyphs.) And if Sera did take her up on her offer, Kada swore to the Maker, to Andraste, to whatever higher power was listening, that she would be better than Lady Emmald. Starting with, of course, helping Sera make new cookies. Family cookies.

Maybe one day those cookies would be good enough to eat without Kada praying to everything that she doesn't throw up.


	16. The Cadash Crime Family, Kada (Codex Entry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: codex entry for your inquisitors

Dearest Leliana,

Let's suppose that one little bird whispered to me of your attempts to dig up my background. Deep, into my background. Pry into the details that no man, woman, elf or qunari, have ever seen before. Of coourse, this isn't unprecedented; you are the spymaster of the Inquisition, and I understand your duty to ensure that the Inquisition's 'Herald of Andraste' remains a public figure that peasants and nobles alike, can draw inspiration and strength from.

And I commend you for that, truly, I do.

But, as you may have certainly surmised from the lack of reports returning to you, I too have access to people and places that allow me to prevent anyone from learning things I do not wish them to know, especially about me.

While I fully understand the need for you (and Josephine) to understand as much as you possibly can about me and my past, there are things you simply cannot afford to learn. But, I will not intercept your missives without a solution. In lieu of sending your spies to go after mine, I will simply divulge information about myself to you. Any questions you may yet have, I am more than happy to answer.

My name is Kada Cadash, born a casteless surfacer Dwarf to Marcher soil. Specifically, Hasmal. Of course, I did not stay in Hasmal for long. I am a Cadash, after all, and as I've already told Josephine, I'm part of the Carta. Was. Am. Quite unsure, at this point, but my employment required frequent travel. I have been to nearly every part of Thedas; Kirkwall to the Anderfels, Val Royeaux to Carastes. Yes, Carastes in Tevinter.

Most of the jobs the Carta sent me on simply involved smuggling lyrium; from apostate mages, or rogue templars. Sometimes even other smugglers, fences, or the particularly rich with a taste for lyrium. If I'm honest, I don't really care who I sold lyrium to. Should any of my clients see me, though I find that unlikely, they won't recognize me. I take care to wear a mask, Spymaster, and no one outside of the Cadash family has seen my face without a mask, not even the Carta. And none of the Cadash family would associate themselves with someone such as myself. I'm not on good terms with my family.

Naturally, of course, you'd want to know of the Cadash bloodline. My elders, not sure which ones as they all sound monotonously the same to me, kept detailed records of our lineage before we became surfacers. We were once of the warrior caste, but, due to circumstances, exiled to the surface. I shall attach you the full story once I receive word from one of my Uncles. Ever since we became surfacers, the Cadash family has been closely intertwined with the Carta. Everyone in the family is involved. Most of us are lyrium smugglers, but some take on other jobs. Particularly thievery and assassinations.

I would be lying if I said that I didn't partake in some of those jobs.

Thieving something from the coffers of a rich man isn't as common as smuggling lyrium, or escorting merchants, however. And any assassination was done in Orzammar, one noble to another for slights I cannot even fathom to understand. I assure you, dearest Leliana, that revealing me to be the Herald will not start a human war.

One of my other roles, aside from being a Carta member, is that of spymaster. I confess, I am not as ruthless as you, nor as far-reaching. I prefer to have my spies maintain watch on personal matters. My information, for one. I have a hundred or so dwarves under my command and while I refuse to put them under your employ, any information they discover is yours to use. Including any information of your wardens.

As a peace offering, the Warden Commander has issued a manhunt for one of the other wardens; unsure which one just yet, but we'll notify you as soon as we know.

Now. What else could possibly pique your interest in me? I have told you all that I deem noteworthy. There is a lot I have elected to omit, of course, but such information is unnecessary for the Inquisition.

Should you have any more questions or curiosities of me and my background, do call for me. I would be happy to answer your questions and avoid having to intercept your inquiries. As you can tell, flying birds are difficult to catch for someone as short as I am.

With love, Kada Cadash

\- a letter written to Leliana from the Herald of Andraste


	17. Affection (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: how do your Inquisitors show affection to their LI?

Arenis Adaar: Showing affection isn't easy for her, for multiple reasons. As a mercenary, she didn't really learn how to be soft. Having romantic candle-lit dinners did nothing in a battle, and Arenis was more preoccupied in learning things that would help her not get skewered in a fight. She has comrades of course, fellow vashoth and tal-vashoth in the Valo-kas, sometimes human mercenaries but what she felt for them wasn't really affection. It was camaraderie, sitting together by a fire, drinking swill until her body revolted at the alcohol. Affection is difficult to express. But some people were worth learning for. (And Leliana will surely have her head if she gave Josephine anything less than the best.) Words aren't her forte, and anything she might say pales in comparison to the craft Josephine displays in only simple sentences, but she tries in other ways. A stolen moment when their duties don't pull them in separate directions; a brush of their hands, a kiss to Josephine's cheek, tea and biscuits enjoyed in Josephine's office when they have time.

Felandaris Lavellan: It's hard for Fel to show affection, though for completely different reasons. He's tactile. Very tactile. Even casual acquaintances get friendly pats on the back, an arm slung around shoulders, or a friendly platonic hug. Felandaris treated everyone as comrades, even though he may not appreciate their company. Even Sera and her wildly offensive views on elvish culture gets an enthusiastic "Great shot back there!" and a quick but warm hug. (Fel tried to pat Madame de Fer once for freezing a demon solid. She shot him a withering glare and he stuck to giving her verbal compliments instead.) So showing Dorian affection in a romantic sense is... a struggle. Of course, Dorian was a smart man, and he figured out the problem quite promptly. Dorian's suggestion was a joke, of course, a sarcastic quip with a fond smile but Fel took it seriously anyway. It's Dorian's fault that every so often, he would find sealed letters on his desk in the library. Completely out of the top cheesy romantic love letters and poems done in Fel's atrocious penmanship. It's entirely ridiculous, and more than embarrassing for both of them. But Fel doesn't stop, and Dorian doesn't tell him to. He also kept each and every single letter but no one's supposed to know about that.

Ashywn Lavellan: She knows what she wants, and she knows how to read people. Two things that have lead to her constantly adapting, changing herself to get the outcome she needs. It's the same way with Solas. She wants him to know he's appreciated and cared for, whilst simultaneously reading how she'll be able to show that best. Sometimes, it's easy. Sometimes she just has to go with him as he searched for elven artifacts, other times, it's rescuing a spirit idiot shemlen forced out of the Fade. Sometimes, it's a little harder. Solas isn't like other elves, isn't overly tactile like the Dalish are, more engrossed in his work and the Fade than with the waking world. So Ashwyn supports his endeavors. She retrieves magical artifacts from all around Thedas for him to study or to keep. She brings him to ancient elven ruins discovered in the Dales, and helps him uncover the mysteries kept secret. He takes her to the Fade sometimes, when she sleeps. It's easier for him to show affection there, and she's more than happy with that.


	18. The Harry Potter AU (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With any good series comes the inevitable question: "What House?"

**Arenis Adaar** : Hufflepuff - She's not nice, she's not soft, and she's not gentle. She's rough, she's aggressive, and she can and will gut you like a fish. Despite this, however, Arenis is Hufflepuff through and through. What she lacks in tact she makes up for with loyalty, open-mindedness, and acceptance. Despite her own beliefs, Arenis never lets that get in the way of her job; judgements in Skyhold may not be merciful, but they are just. Even if Arenis doesn't want them to be. She ensures that everyone in Skyhold gets treated based on their actions, and not their ears, or their horns, or their height. At the end of the day, Arenis works tirelessly to make the world a better, more just place.

 **Felandaris Lavellan** : Ravenclaw - If it weren't for his bias against shemlen, he would have made a good Hufflepuff. Still, Fel is an excellent Ravenclaw. He has an insatiable hunger, an indomitable thirst for knowledge that he just can't quench. Sure, he rushes into battle head first, shield raised and smashing everyone to the ground, but he's smart. Tactical. He can command his people to go where they need to win the fight, analyze an enemy in the blink of an eye to know the exact spot where he needs to stab. And although his biases and distrust would take a long time to fade, he's trying. Constantly learning new things, reflecting on what he already knows to push himself even further.

 **Ashwyn Lavellan** : Slytherin - Ambition. Pride. Cunning. Ashwyn has these traits in spades and will definitely be sorted into Slytherin in a heartbeat. She has a lot of ambition, a vision for the future that she wants to bring to fruition; and she has the mind and mettle to chase after that vision. Her resourcefulness would enable her to utilize every tool at her disposal, including her fellow housemates. Whether they loathe her, like her, or simply tolerate her presence, Ashwyn can and will find a way to turn that to her advantage. Which is why she's such a good Slytherin. She fights dirty, and isn't afraid to do whatever is necessary to get what she wants.

 **Kada Cadash** : Slytherin - It's not a surprise the Carta dwarf is a Slytherin. Of course she would be, due to one trait that domineered over most else: ruthlessness. There is no force in the world that can match Kada when it comes to fighting without remorse. Every connection, every favour owed, every single word of gossip is used. When Kada steels herself to complete a goal, it will be completed by any means necessary. Whether it's killing Corypheus, or protecting her children, Kada is bold, assertive, and does not hesitate leaping for the jugular. The most terrifying thing is that she knows. She knows what she can do. And she's not afraid to do it.


	19. DA:I Canon(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> each major choice by each of the inquisitors

**Arenis Adaar:** Sided with the templars as free allies, left Stroud in the fade, allowed wardens to stay, Celene rules alone, Morrigan drank from the well - Assassin dual-wielding rogue - romanced Josephine

 **Felandaris Lavellan:** Sided with the templars as conscripts, left Warden in the fade, allowed wardens to stay, Briala rules with Gaspard, Fel drank from the well - Champion sword and shield warrior - romanced Dorian

 **Ashwyn Lavellan:** Sided with the mages as free allies, left Hawke in the fade, banished wardens, Celen reconciled with Briala, Ashwyn drank from the well - Knight enchanter mage - romanced Solas

 **Kada Cadash** : Sided with templars as free allies, left Hawke in the fade, allowed wardens to stay, Gaspard rules alone, Morrigan drank from the well - Assassin archer - no romance


	20. Dread Wolf (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: how do the Inquisitors handle Solas' betrayal?

**Arenis Adaar:**  Out of everyone, her relationship with Solas is the most strained. Most of their interactions were heated arguments, or cold silence. The rare times they do agree were short-lived, as new arguments soon bubbled to the surface. When Corypheus finally fell, Solas disappeared, and they parted on less than amicable terms. While Arenis wasn't close with Solas, she didn't actively dislike him until after Trespasser. The Inquisition served under Divine Cassandra with a singular goal of finding Solas. Once he revealed his identity to her, she swore to whatever god was listening that she was going to stop him by any means necessary. Even if that means killing him.

**Felandaris Lavellan:**  It devastated him. Solas was like his mentor, proof that the Elves haven't completely lost. If Solas was here, with his knowledge and wisdom and expertise, it means that the Elves might have had a chance, that there was still hope for rebuilding what they lost and reclaiming their heritage and culture. He could have shared his knowledge, helped the Dalish understand more than just bits and pieces of their past. Confronting Solas hurt him more than losing his arm. And although he swore to stop Solas from destroying the wold as they know it, Fel knows that he doesn't see Solas as the monster others clearly do. He's still just Solas. And when the time comes for the two of them to face off against each other, he doesn't know if he can bring himself to fight.

**Ashwyn Lavellan:**  She hides her pain well. After Solas left, she maintains the facade of the Inquisitor, perfectly diplomatic in all things, never letting anything slip past her mask. She reminded herself of him, and that only made her colder. During the events of Trespasser, she unearths Solas' identity before he even reveals it to her. Strangely, she accepts it with a disturbing amount of poise. No one really knows what happened through that Eluvian. All they know, all she ever let them know is that she lost her fucking arm. Strangely enough, Ashwyn kept the Inquisition under Divine Leliana working with the Chantry to root out Solas and any of his followers. Ashwyn kept herself scarce during these investigations, often disappearing for weeks chasing new leads. No one knows where she goes. No one has time to check in on her. They were all too busy trying to root out a new mole in the Inquisition, one who seemed to know everything about their plans and relayed them to Solas and his agents before anything could be done.

**Kada Cadash:**  The decision was simple. Solas was a threat. Not only to her, or to every innocent man and woman, but to her children. They would never survive his shitty attempt at retracing his steps. He made his choice; he should bear the responsibility of it. Most of the Inquisition forces were relegated as the Divine's personal guard, with only a small trusted few assisting in the efforts of finding and stopping Solas. Kada will see him pay; for the lives he cost, for his mindfucked plan of "restoring what once was" even at the price of innocent lives. Kada was old, she's not as young or as agile, or as strong. But she hasn't lost the ruthlessness that cemented her power as Inquisitor. She _will_ make him pay for everything that he's done, even if it's the last fucking thing she ever does.


	21. Fear (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: what did the Nightmare demon taunt your Inquisitor with in the Fade?

**Arenis Adaar:**  She's heard stories. The Tal-Vashoth in the Valo-Kas spoke about them in hushed whispers, afraid that an apparition would arise from mud and dirt and drag them away screaming back to Par Vollen. The re-educators. The qamek that robs all identity. The one thing she loved about being a mercenary was the freedom of going anywhere, being anything she wanted. And the horror stories told around the Valo-Kas campfire kept her awake for nights. And the bastard demon knew it. She saw a towering qunari in front of her, taller than herself, taller than bull. Protruding horns, vicious grin, chains dangling from hands that heldwhat she can only assume was qamek. A recreation of the re-educators she dreamed about in her nightmares.

She did not hesitate to kill it, focusing on the sound of her blades slicing flesh, ignoring how the demon laughed. How it spoke and sounded right next to her. How she heard the distinct rattle of chains even as she watched the metal dissolve into nothingness. "You won't escape it, you know," the Nightmare cooed. Another Re-educator materialized in front of her. She cut that down too. "You can try to run, pretend to be free. But they'll catch you. And you'll lose the freedom you so desperately try to keep."

She trembled. Hands shaking. The fear in her heart was real. It beat to a rhythm she couldn't understand, driven by the primal force of desperation. Another re-educator. She cut it down. "I will not submit," she growled, the sound animal even to her own ears. "I will die before I live as a mindless slave." The demon laughed again, but she pushed on. The familiar presence of rage made itself known. Good. She needed to be angry. It would help her when she finally cut this bastard demon down.

* * *

 

 **Felandaris Lavellan:**  He could almost feel the demon grinning, sharp teeth digging into his back. Memories surfaced, ones that weren't consumed by the demon. Ones that Fel almost wished were taken from his as well. Suddenly, he was back in the Free Marches, away from the Chantry, away from the Inquisition. He was no one but Felandaris of Clan Lavellan. He could feel the ropes digging into his back, the sting of salt on his skin and the desperation in his voice. The trees stood still and silent as he screamed, fingers grasping out and catching nothing but air. She stood before him, young and bold and terrified. Her skin bled purple, dark splotches of green blossomed all over her body, poison dripped from between her teeth. And she cried. She cried and sobbed and screamed for him to help her. "Fel'an!" she wept. "Don't leave me here, Fel'an! Help me, save me!"

The Nightmare's raucous laughter broke his trance. Fel shook. Is it fury? Is it sadness? Guilt? He didn't know. All he knew was that he failed to save her, and the dread of failing to save his friends slammed into him harder than any hit he ever took. "Poor girl. She trusted you and you left her to die. You failed to protect her," the Nightmare cooed. "You chose your life over hers and deep down, you know, you'll let all your friends die in the Fade if it means that you'll live. You're nothing but a coward playing hero."

Somehow, through some miracle of the gods, Fel didn't collapse under the burden of his remorse. Instead, he grinned. Vicious and sharp and lacking whatever mirth or warmth he may have had. "The only one I'm leaving to die in the Fade is you." His words were steady, full of confidence he didn't have. If his companions wanted to ask who 'she' was, they kept quiet. Just as well. Fel was never going to tell that story.

* * *

  **Ashwyn Lavellan:**  What can she be afraid of? Until her journey into the Fade, she didn't know her deepest fear herself. The fearlings manifested differently each time, trying to get under her skin. Even in the cemetery, where each of her companion's deepest fears were visible, Ashwyn's tomb held an epitaph like a serpent. The words shed and renewed only to shed again, cycling through all that the Nightmare pilfered from her head. The words never settled long enough to be read, only to let Ashwyn know that the Nightmare is looking for something, anything, to use against her. But the tombstone continues to shift, and the fearlings continued to mold into whatever the Nightmare fancied; changing their skins, contorting into different images so removed from their original form that Ashwyn forgot if the spider before her appeared that way, or shifted in the middle of the battle. When she finally does realize what the Nightmare was doing, she freezes.

The Nightmare laughed in mocking delight. "So the Inquisitor finally realized the truth. I'm not surprised it took you this long to notice. Or have you known all this time and just strung everyone along? Manipulating them. Puppeteering them." One fearling landed in front of her, shifting until Ashwyn stared at herself. A fake her with a too-bright smile and an Orlesian dress. Then it shifted, changing into a different Ashwyn. A grim Ashwyn who led soldiers to battle, a sympathetic Ashwyn as she rallied for support. "You know so much about other people, but you don't even know who the you're supposed to be. You're just a pretender wearing a fake smile, wandering alone with no identity of your own."

Her reaction was instant. She didn't even have to think about it, her body going through the motions before her mind could properly recover. "I am Inquisitor Ashwyn Lavellan. I know who I am." She put on a severe expression. Another mask, but one that helped her move forward, hands tight around the hilt of her weapon, her magic creating a gleaming blade of pure mana. "You don't scare me." The Nightmare was nothing. It could not compare to the revulsion she felt at playing dress up at the Orlesian Court. It was nothing more than another demon she needed to kill.

* * *

  **Kada Cadash:**  The fearlings took the form of many things. For Cassandra, it was maggots writing in filth. Hawke saw spiders. Bull saw whatever the fuck Bull saw. Kada saw her children. But they were contorted, broken, perverted into grotesque creatures that ached her heart for every one she had to kill. She saw Isskari with his eyes lolling out of the sockets, and Basi with his chest gaping open. Gartek had both arms missing, Catarina held her own decapitated head on one hand as she charged. Each arrow Kada fired became heavier, more hesitant, as her children's dying screams grated on her resolve bit by bit. They echoed in her head. "Inquisitor!" Blackwall had yelled, alarm and panic rising in his voice. Kada just barely managed to kill the last fearling shambling towards her. It was Edra, skin decayed and falling to pieces, clinging on by a thin strip of pus-filled flesh. It was possibly the first -and only- time Kada cried in front of anyone in the Inquisition. Seeing her children like that, even if they were mere facsimiles created by the Nightmare, hurt.

And the bastard of a demon knew, and laughed. A deep growling noise that would haunt Kada for centuries. "What kind of mother leaves her children out to die? What kind of mother stays away from home for so long without even a single message? What kind of mother lets a child join a Carta full of thieves, murderers, and smugglers?" The nest fearling was an amalgamation of her children, parts stitched together, their cries mingling until Kada can't pick out a single voice. "Mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother mother"

The taunting broke off into childish laughter. Kada wiped her tears away; no one deigned to comment on them. "I can protect my children." Her voice was resolute, and firm, and unafraid. She will protect them; every single one of them. The Nightmare won't even manage to get close. Kada's fingers twitched, and notched an arrow, firing it quick as lightning. "Now this is my question to you, demon. Can you protect yourself?"


	22. Inquisitor Trevelyan

Gideon Trevelyan

In all honesty, if it weren't for Andraste, he would never have survived the explosion at the conclave. Here he was, a simple, ordinary man, suddenly thrust into the spotlight. He's not meant to be in the spotlight. He just wanted to live his life quietly, in service to the Chantry. Not get blown up at the Conclave. He didn't even know how he survived, and he didn't know how to lead an entire Inquisition. He wasn't the eldest son to the Trevelyan bloodline, not even second in line. Or even third. He was the youngest! Naive to the world and all its dangers. His life, as he planned it, was to live and die in the chantry, not lead a heretical faction. But if the Maker wills it, then Gideon would do his best to follow through with His vision. He may not be the best Inquisitor, sheltered as he was, but he will try.

He may not be the best fighter, but he did practice archery as a sport when he was younger. Certainly not as good as Miss Sera, but he had a good enough aim not to shoot his comrades and enough sense to judge distance and trajectory. He may not be as diplomatically gifted as Lady Montilyet, but having to sit through countless hours of family dinners and lavish parties surely gave him skills in wordplay. And while he may not be an effective leader, he was kind and garnered respect from his soldiers.

While he understood that the Mark was simply because of an Elven artifact and the foolish desires of a corrupted Magister, he still believes that he is the Maker's chosen. The Maker could have made it so that he heard the late Divine calling out. It might be the Maker's doing that Giddeon managed to grab the orb in the first place. Everything has a place. Everything has a purpose. There's a reason why so many of Gideon's family perished in the Conclave while he survived. There was a reason for all the death and destruction around him. The Maker has his reasons. He has his own plan.

He needs something to believe in as the world falls apart around him.

 

Many times, the young Inquisitor Trevelyan could be found knelt in prayer before the statue in Skyhold. Knees bent, head bowed, mouth moving in fervent prayer. Hoping that someone out there was listening to him. As Inquisitor, he has to be strong. He has to look like he knew what the fuck was going on, like he forged on, path assuredly laid out before him. In truth, the Inquisitor was no more than a man. A simple, ordinary man, weak and scared.

He prays before that statue in the dark of night, when the entirety of Skyhold was silent as a ghost. Hoping against hope that he would find the courage he needed to continue fighting once morning comes. Hopes that he was making the right decisions to bring back the peace so callously shattered by Corypheus. Hopes that he was saving as many people as he possibly can. Hopes that he can end this bloodshed soon.

Lit only by flickering candles, he prays. Not as the Inquisitor, but as a man desperately trying to find his way.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written."

"I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped. Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide."


	23. Clothes (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: how do your Inquisitors wear clothes? What is their fashion style?

**Arenis Adaar** : Pragmatic. She dresses in thick, sturdy leathers that are light and flexible enough to facilitate movement. She does not suffer sentimentality in her clothing. Even if it does not live up to the current fashion trend or even when Orlesian nobles call her "barbaric" for wearing thick furs and leather hides. If Arenis wanted to give a damn about her appearance though, she certainly won't be concerned what snobbish nobles think. She wears what she needs to survive and protect herself. She fights at the forefront of a goddamn war. She needs clothes that can withstand punishment. She does, however, relent when Josephine shows her a dress. "It brings out your eyes! Going to one Orlesian party won't kill you." And of course, Arenis relents. Not just because Josephine is lovely, but because the dress had a rich maroon colour that does bring out the gold in Arenis' eyes. What? She may wear pragmatic clothes at all times, but she can still appreciate the beauty of a dress!

 **Felandaris Lavellan** : When Josephine told him about the Empress' ball, his response was immediate. "I'm wearing Dalish clothes or I'm not going at all." The Court can disapprove all they want. Fel already lost his culture to Orlais when they marched through the Dales, when they snatched Halamshiral from Dalish hands and paraded it around as a fucking Orlesian novelty. Felandaris Lavellan would rather die than wear any manner of Orlesian fashion on what should be Dalish soil. Besides, he already wears clothes of Dalish make everywhere. Woven patterns of leather armor underneath metal plating. Jewelry etched with symbols of the Creators. A black Dalish outfit held patterned with intricate swirls. A tunic embroidered by Dalish craftsmen that flowed loosely over his body. Josephine wants him to dress fancy for Halamshiral? Fine. Fel will stroll through the goddamn gates in a long dark green Dalish robe held together with a blood red sash. It'll have silks draped artfully over him. He will look damn good and it will be of Dalish make. The scandalised looks on every noble's face was worth the scolding he got from Josephine.

 **Ashwyn Lavellan** : She doesn't fancy clothes. Resources and time can be pooled to better endeavors. She does, however, maintain a collection of dresses. Most of them were from Josephine, in anticipation of meeting with visiting dignitaries. Ashwyn owned sashed robes from faraway Rivain and vibrant dresses from Ferelden. She owns dresses with the antique look of Tevinter-inspired fashion and the laced and fluffed wide dresses from Orlais. Dresses are like the personas she wears. Kind Inquisitor who wears a simple undecorated dress to meet with minor lords and ladies, to show that she can be approached. Haughty Inquisitor who dons the Orelsian fashion and effortlessly trades words sharper than knives with ladies in the Winter Palace. And just Ashwyn Lavellan. Wearing an ancient Dalish dress in the privacy of her own quarters, the last gift from a man no one can find anymore. She hums a song forgotten in this age, and lets herself be Lavellan for a few moments before she has to become the Inquisitor again.

 **Kada Cadash** : While she doesn't have the taste for opulence that Edra does, the girl oftentimes bought scores of jewelry and fancy dresses for her collection alone, Kada does enjoy fashion. To an extent. She holds no love for the fancy frills of Orlais or the richly dyed fabrics of most noblewoman's dresses. The dresses she loves are simple. And colourful. A clashing of red and blue. Yellow spattering on a lime green fabric. Patterned cloth of flowers and trees and nature. Kada is a woman who doesn't share the same tastes as others and knows it. Accepts it. Every woman would be wearing flowers in her hair. So why not wear a dress with flowers all around the fabric instead. She doesn't regret her rather unorthodox fashion sense either. She enjoys wearing dresses not for others but for herself. If she feels happy with a hideous orange dress, then she'll wear the hideous orange dress with confidence.

 **Gideon Trevelyan:**  For someone born to a noble family, Gideon is entirely plain and unassuming. Sure, he's proud of his lineage, proud of his family, proud of the blood that runs deep and old and soaks Marcher soil in ancient Trevelyan history, but he's not...showy. He wears plain clothes. Gets mistaken for a soldier a lot. Doesn't look like a nobleman. He likes it that way. Admittedly, being without the comfort of his home and wealth is...odd. He's used to having silk suits around him. Fresh pillows with soft down. While he did regain the soft down pillows and expensive blankets once they got to Skyhold, he kept his simple wardrobe. Being venerated simply for being born a Trevelyan felt wrong after he spent so many hours on the field with soldiers, talking to him like he was one of them. Just another man. Gideon enjoys simple clothes because it takes his mind off of the fact that he's the Inquisitor.


	24. Penmanship (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: What does your Inquisitor's handwriting look like?

**Arenis Adaar** : Bold letters in all capitals, meant to be read at a glance. It came from her time as a mercenary. Leave notes that are easy to read to communicate battle plans. It is not fancy or elegant, but it can be easily read even by the servants who only have a bare minimum grasp on the written word. Each letter is made to be as distinct from another as possible, and the spacing is even enough to keep letters from running into each another.

 **Felandaris Lavellan** : Absolutely terrible. He can read, slowly but still, but he can only barely write. It's not his fault though. Before leaving for the Conclave, he had no experience writing Shemlen letters. And even when he did begin writing, his hands -scarred, calloused, and bruised from fighting- didn't have the dexterity to hold a pen with any measure of elegance. It's legible to people like Josephine, Cassandra, and Dorian who have experience reading a lot, but to people who aren't used to reading, his handwriting is simply illegible.

 **Ashwyn Lavellan** : Poised and practiced. Each letter is neat, and each word ended with an artful swirl of a tail. Writing is treated as art. The letters are tilted to the side ever so slightly, the pen she uses applies differing levels of pressure to give depth and volume to her letters. It almost looks robotic. There is no character in her writing. Just a textbook, uniform lettering meant to appear as concise and consistent as possible. It takes hours for her to finish a letter of 500 words due to the meticulous penmanship of her letters.

 **Kada Cadash** : Quick and messy. Meant to be discarded as soon as it was read. A carta habit. Kada writes like she's running out of time, like she was trapped in a burning house with only a few sparse seconds before the roof collapses on her head. Her letters bleed into each other in a chickenscrawl cursive that only Josephine's patience and her children's experience could decipher.

 **Gideon Trevelyan:**  He's a noble. He writes like a noble should. Tilted slightly, letters with elegant swirls, cursive lettering. It's been hammered in him since childhood. There isn't much room to deviate. His spacing, however, is a little odd. There are spaces between letters where there shouldn't be, and the words are more far apart than they should be. Aside from that, Gideon writes like his mother, like his brother, like his father.


	25. Prayer (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Are your Inquisitors religious?

**Arenis Adaar** : She's an atheist. Never really had time to believe in gods when the world spat demons at her face. She was interested in the Chantry once, even considered going inside to see what it was like. But revulsion from the human clergy kept her at bay. If people were going to stare at her stature or her horns, better to be stared at on the eve of battle. She did try to go to the Chantry again, after everything, after losing her arm. Josephine's family, while shocked at Arenis' appearance, welcomed her in Antiva. And introduced her to the Sisters at the nearest Chantry. Arenis is still an atheist, but she understands the value of faith a little better now.

 **Felandaris Lavellan** : He prays as much as he can. Every night before bed, at the eve of battle, whenever one of his companions gets injured. Fel prays to the Creators. He traces the Vallaslin on his face in the company of silence, and mutters prayers as his fingertips follow the line of colour down to his neck, to his chest, to his heart. Mythal. Preserve me. Keep me safe even in the midst of danger. Protect me and all I hold dear. Preserve me. Preserve me. Fel used to pray as much as he can. Then Solas gave him truth. Solas revealed his identity. Solas took his arm. He still believes, and still prays. But there's doubt in his words now, and he doesn't say the words as reverently as he used to. Preserve me.

 **Ashwyn Lavellan** : While she practiced the old ways, she wasn't one for religion. Still, she was Dalish, a true elf. The last of the Elvhen. She will die before she submits to the Chantry. Her prayers are methodical, a long series of words entirely in elven at the crack of dawn, and another set once the sun dips past the horizon. The names of all the Creators. Mythal, Elgar'nan, Falon'din, Dirthamen, Ghilan'nain, Andruil, Sylaise. She stopped praying entirely once she learned the truth about her Vallaslin. She started praying again after the disaster at Halamshiral, after following Solas through the Eluvian. She prays three times a day, knelt beside her bed, head bowed sadly. "Fen'Harel, return to me."

 **Kada Cadash** : What religion? She's a carta dwarf with several children. She has no time to cling to fantastical elvish gods or some human woman who was venerated into godhood. Or whatever was going on with the Chantry these days. She just wanted to do her job, do it well, and go back home. The gods have no place in her heart, as busy as she was. That said, she does not judge or mock others for their worship. Solan is Dalish and keeps to his elf gods. Cardin was a devout Andrastian. Her children came from everywhere and while she herself didn't have the strong belief that they did, she let them worship who they wanted.

 **Gideon Trevelyan:**  Andrastian to the core. Devout and diligent in his prayers. He sings the Chant of Light, beginning to end, as often as he can even when he was just the youngest son of Lord Trevelyan. It only intensified when he became Inquisitor. But he didn't only pray. He went out into the world, into the unknown, and tried. Prayer without action was the worst thing that an Andrastian could do, in his opinion. Andraste did not break from the Imperium by singing songs. She acted. For everyone. While Gideon could never compare to her, he tries his best. Doing the little things for everyone, hoping that his actions showed his devotion as well as the Chant.


	26. Dance (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Does your Inquisitor dance?

**Arenis Adaar** : While she likes dancing in theory, it was a little hard to do in practice. For all the grace and ease she had at throwing daggers, Arenis couldn't dance her way out of a paper bag. She was barely passable at the Winter Palace, thanking whoever listened that the Orlesians gave her Qunari body a wide berth. She was able to avoid stepping on anyone because they were in a separate bubble separate from the rest of the world. But holy shit is she bad at dancing. The days prior to the Winter Palace, Arenis had to be taught how to dance. Tutors from all over Thedas, then Leliana, and even Josephine herself. Arenis moved clumsily, stepped on feet, and gotten herself stuck on a beam as her horn impaled into the wood. It's a miracle she survived the Winter Palace at all.

 **Felandaris Lavellan** : The only dances he knew are the Dalish folk fire dances. Tapping feet and clapping hands, skips and twirls that followed not music but the tune of voices from everyone in his clan. Shemlen dances were strange and stiff, filled with rules Fel didn't understand. There are so many "wrongs" when dancing was supposed to be fun, a way to celebrate a good hunt or a safe birth, a plentiful forage or a successful escape from human mercenaries. Fel loved dancing; he'd dance with Shemlen children at the villages they passed by, spinning along an imaginary fire as they clapped their hands and stomped their feet. But he faltered at the human dances that were so stiff and devoid of any character. The Winter Palace was worse than Corypheus.

 **Ashwyn Lavellan** : While she enjoyed the folk dances her clan did, she found herself surprisingly at ease with human dances. The precise, controlled movement was more predictable than the spontaneous dances of her clan. Both were beautiful in their own way. The folk dances were full of vibrancy, charged with elated feeling that spread around the camp as quick as the sound of their voices. And human dances were measured, guided, the swell of music accentuating the cant of her hips and the sway of her hands. There's a formula, a pattern, one she hungrily devoured. She learned the traditional dance of Orlais quickly. Then Ferelden. Then the Marches. She dances as she walks, poised and elegant, with a fluidity that is only rivaled by the ease of the spells she casts.

 **Gideon Trevelyan:**  Dancing is one of his greater passions, aside from playing music. There's nothing more divine then stepping into the rhythm of the song, letting it welcome you like an old friend and swimming along to the waves. Dancing was like breathing for him. He remembered dancing with his older sisters, laughing gaily as he had to stand on his tiptoes to keep them from hunching down too much. His older brothers would put his feet on top of theirs and flail like wild monkeys, making Gideon laugh loudly. He remembered dancing with several women at several parties. He enjoyed the dancing more than their idle attempts at conversation. Of course, the Inquisition didn't leave him much time for dancing, but that didn't mean that he stayed still. Gideon swayed when standing idly, he tapped his foot in a familiar rhythm when forced into a seat talking with dignitaries, always dancing in his mind.


	27. A Little Bit Of Training (Gideon)

Mother always said that Gideon was a man of faith rather than a man of action. At the time, he had thought it a compliment. His mother directing her gaze away from the large shadows cast by his older brothers and sisters, and finally, finally recognizing that Gideon existed as something other than part of a matched set. The final piece to the six-part puzzle of the Trevelyan children. Now, fighting as the Herald of Andraste smack dab in the middle of two different parties of people fully intent on skewering him on a shiny sword or burning him alive with fiery magic, he realized that it wasn't really a compliment. Somehow, Mother found a way to use his faith as an insult. If that wasn't impressive...

She had a point though. Faith can get him far, but as a fighter, it wasn't far enough. While singing templars and mages into submission with the Chant of Light was certainly appealing, it never would have worked. Violence only listened to violence. The war won't stop with kind words and nice smiles. If Gideon wanted peace, he had to fight for it. And, frankly, it made his stomach turn. But what choice did he have? Let people kill each other until the entire south of Thedas ran with blood? It was this thought that pushed him to get up at such odd hours in the morning.

After the whole Herald of Andraste business, Gideon couldn't take a step outside without someone greeting him. It was nice to be recognized for once, but it also made training difficult. Gideon needed absolute focus, and his mind wandered with noise. With dawn, however, came the silence and the solitude he needed. The training fields outside Haven were empty. Even Cullen's rigid training schedule for the Inquisition's forces had room for sleep. Only the soft neighing of the horses could be heard and it was a noise soft enough for Gideon to focus.

He adjusted the straps of his quiver and took a deep breath as he knocked an arrow to his bow. When he fired, it missed the bullseye, but hit the target. Good enough.

The sun crawled further up with each arrow he fired. The rhythmic thunk against the target narrowed his mind into a single point, every nerve set alight, the target filling his vision and drowning out everything else. Gideon had no time to think of his family when he was so busy trying to hit the damn target.

"You look like a right tit," said a voice dangerously close to his ear.

Gideon will deny yelping. The arrow sailed a continent above the target, flying past it and onto the expanse of ice that blanketed Haven's lake. Gideon will also deny jumping a foot in the air and scowling as Sera laughed maniacally beside him. "Sera!" he chided, doing his best to sound authoritative and not like the scared young man he actually was. "It isn't polite to sneak up on people." She blew him a raspberry. "The least you could do is say hello."

Sera, being who she is, took one of Gideon's arrows and knocked it to her bow. "I did say hello. I said 'you look like a right tit' and then you jumped ten feet in the air." There was still a hint of mirth in her voice as she fired. The arrow hit home, driving deep past the bullseye and into the wood behind the straw target. "Not my fault right tits look like right tits. You nobles think you're so hot til you're scrambling to lodge an arrow at a target right in front of you."

Already, Gideon could feel the migraine settling into place. It was like an unwelcome guest at a party. Taking up the best couch, demanding refreshments every ten minutes and exchanging a barely sipped glass for a full one. A nuisance one couldn't get rid of despite the best collective efforts of everyone else. Sera was one such migraine. They never got along. As much as Gideon tried to extend his patience to her, she just refused to see reason. They argued over everything; Sera hurling insults like a wild mage might throw spells, Gideon trying his best to riposte and failing as she spoke too quickly for him.

There was an argument teetering on the horizon today, he could hear it saying hello like a begruding friend. The smart answer would be to simply not answer. But Gideon had never been one to shut his mouth when a thought crossed his mind. "If I was so confident in my abilities, I wouldn't be practicing this early in the morning."

Sera laughed shortly, somehow cramming a thousands sounds of mockery and discontent in only a few seconds. "You call shooting an arrow so far from your target you might as well be shootin' at a podge eatin' tart all the way in Denerim 'practice'? That's something new."

Oh, Maker, what a frightful migraine he's having today. "That's because you scared me."

"You think mages or templars will care if they scare you?" She scoffed, stealing more of Gideon's arrows and firing them one after the other. The arrows all cloistered around the bullseye, Chantry Sisters at a convent, gathered together in prayer. "Any idiot with their head on right's right to be scared. Got all these mages spitting fireballs from their arses and a whole squad of glorified helm-polishers shovin their codpieces around tryin' to show who's who who's bigger. Damn mess it is."

Gideon sighed and tried to continue practice. As best he can with Sera going through his arrow supply faster three for every one he shoots. She hits the bullseye every time too. The target looked like a mess now, the straw would be unusable when they were done. "I'm trying to stop this mess," he muttered under his breath, feeling like the child his mother scolded for not being like his brother who was a fine warrior, or his sister who could sing like a canary. "Not my fault I've only started fighting when the Conclave failed."

"Ugh!" Sera exclaimed. "There it is! Noble pricks blaming others for their mistakes." She jabbed a finger at Gideon's side. He missed again. "If you're shite at arrows, that's your fault. Not the Conclave or whoever."

"Why do you think I'm practising!?" Gideon yelled, his patience shoved deep down, buried under the frustration he could never show around anyone else. Cassandra responded poorly to defensive yelling, Solas held a look that judged Gideon's entire soul, Varric had more pressing matters than someone like Gideon adding to that pile. There was nowhere else for the anger to go. "I've been here every single day, trying to be better, to do something right and this is what I get? If I wanted to be mocked, Sera, I would have gone home!"

It felt good. Yelling uncorked all the negativity he kept bitten back. Gideon never has the chance to speak his mind and even the few words left him winded, cheeks flushed. "Sorry." He turned back to practice, hand shaking. "It wasn't fair for me to yell at you like that. Apologies."

Sera groaned and jabbed him in the side again. The arrow joined the rapidly growing pile far off on the ice. Gideon could see a nug gnawing at the shaft of one of his arrows. "You were doing so well too, then you had to go back to bein' right and proper. Arrows don't work that way. You gotta get your mind out that rut."

 _If I could, I'd have done it already_ , Gideon thought solemnly. "I don't have the same aim as you do, Sera."

"Pssh, obviously." She rolled her eyes. "You're thinking too hard. Arrows are simple 'cause you don't need to think. Just fire 'em." As if to demonstrate, Sera fired one arrow after another. Bullseye. "Like that. You think too hard, your brain gets all mushy and you lose focus. Just breathe and maybe you won't podge it up."

Gideon sighed. Still, Haven has yet to awaken, and the sun still gave off the faint pink hues indicative of the early hours. No one in their right mind would awake this early in the blistering cold. They had time. Sera and Gideon spent the whole dawn that way, firing arrows and insults at each other. Well, Sera fired insults that proved to be helpful in their own way. Gideon struggled to get her to rephrase her sentences so he could actually understand her.

When the arrows finally ran out, Gideon still hadn't hit a single bullseye, but he was closer than he was before. "Sera," he called before the rogue could disappear again. "Do you mind helping me gather the arrows?"

"Why? They're yours."

"Yes, but the nugs would have eaten the ones on the lake by the time I manage to get even half of these." She still looked unconvinced. "If we lose these many arrows, we'll have to pay someone to get more. If we pay someone to get more, there will be less coin for you to purchase your odd collection of items for your pranks."

A fire lit up in Sera's eyes, dim and dull, but it was there. Gideon had snagged himself someone to help clean up the evidence of his incompetent archery. The target had all been mangled however. Thin strips of straw and hay, loose on the ground. The centre of the target was nothing but a hole, and the rest was unusable as the edges frayed under the simple brush of Gideon's fingers. "We can bundle these up for pillows," Gideon said to no one in particular.

From the corner of his eye, Gideon watched Sera's face twist into a contemplative frown. "You're not posh yet, Herald," she said with an approving nod. "You might not be that bad."

"I'm flattered." The smile that Gideon gave her was genuine. "Do you want to get up tomorrow as well? I learn best by watching."

"I bet you do."

Her laughter echoed loud enough to wake some of Haven's residents up and while they didn't see the Herald of Andraste fail miserably at firing arrows, they did see him with a burning face. Gideon couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

 


	28. Inquisitor Adaar (Asaaranda)

Asaaranda Adaar

To anyone who asks, he's just a simple Vashothari born outside the Qun, trying to get by. Yes, he's a mage. No, he doesn't use his magic to torch villages to the ground. Yes, he has horns. No, he won't try to convert anyone to the Qun. He doesn't even know the Qun! Just a simple mercenary, nothing to see here, move along move along. Somehow, despite being taller than the Iron Bull (and what a feat that was), Adaar managed to slip past the radars of most people. He lingered in the corners, hands nervously wrung together. He looked much more like a lost child than a dangerous horned mage.

But he can't help it. There's a fear that lingers in the back of his mind, deafening in the screams of relentless paranoia. What if they know? What if someone figures it out? All it would take was one slip-up, one sign, and the messenger birds would be sent flying. A single rumour and the Ben-Hassrath would know that he was Tal-Vashoth. A deserter. They could ambush him, drag him back in chains with his mouth sewn shut and hands bound. The re-educators would destroy his mind, strip away everything that Adaar managed to carve out for himself. He won't be Asaaranda anymore. Just SB-EL2-510-871M. The letters and numbers were seared into his mind. He saw it every time he closed his eyes, and every time he saw a dark shadow dance on a wall.

Leliana had his life laid out for her perusal. Adaar thanked whatever was listening that she did not have record of his past, his true past. To her, he was just another mercenary who joined the Valo-Kas as a new recruit. She did not know how he had to break the bone of his left wrist to escape the shackles that bound him. She did not know how the bone never set properly, how his left hand was always in pain in cold weather. She did not know how Adaar's fellow mage, SB-FI6-510-886F, gave up her own chance at freedom just so he could live free. She did not know how that the scars on Adaar's throat was from his own hand, a futile attempt at clawing the nightmares away.

Caution lingers behind his eyes as the Inquisitor. He checks and doublechecks newcomers, working closely with Leliana in what might be described as paranoia. Any one could be a Qunari spy. While the possibility of any one of them realizing that Adaar was a Tal-Vashot remained low, he couldn't help the fear. That fear kept him from working with Madame Vivienne, an Orlesian with plenty of connections; if she wasn't a spy, she might know someone who was. All it took was a rumour. It was why he was nearly sent into a panic attack when he talked with the Iron Bull the first time. For someone whose survival depended on being kept in the shadows, being Inquisitor felt like a death sentence.

But there was a more pressing matter than his fear at being discovered. Corypheus didn't care if Adaar was risking his freedom by being at the front of the Inquisition's army. He was going to rend the world asunder unless Adaar stopped him. He won't be able to enjoy freedom long if the world ended, after all.

And, to his credit, Adaar hid his terror well. He used the slow cadence of his voice to mask the fact that his mind was racing. The deep rasp of his voice was because of past injuries to his throat rather than his mangled Marcher accent. His slouched posture was to look people in the eye better, not because he wanted to sink into shadow. He had his advisers summarize reports verbally to disguise the fact he could not read a single word in Common.

If he could fool the Nightingale, he could fool the Ben-Hassrath. At least, for now.

 

During a game of wicked grace between himself, Varric, Blackwall, Dorian, and Bull, Dorian had made an observation. "You never cast any barrier spells." Although his tone was easy, Adaar had felt the entire room tilt at an angle. He could almost feel Bull's eyes devour his posture, looking for something to latch onto. A leverage. A hint. A rumour is all it takes. "For such a powerful mage, I'd imagine that your barriers must withstand more punishment than most. Why do you never cast it."

Adaar forced a laugh that sounded too genuine. It was terrifying how good he's become at lying. "The best defense is a good offense, I say." Varric had made a noise of disbelief, and Bull expressed his agreement with a hearty yell. "Why waste mana on a barrier when I could paralyze my opponents instead?" That's why he chose his name. Asaaranda. Thunderstorm. He was a lightning mage, capable of moving storms with his magic. It was the reason he gave everyone who asked.

He never told them the truth. If Bull knew, he would show it. He was in Seheron; he knew how Saarebas were treated.

They learned no defensive spells. They were simply weapons. If, in the midst of battle, they were beaten raw and bloody or scarred all over, it was simply a well-used sword getting scratch marks. Why teach a monster how to defend himself when all he needed to know was how to cage his enemies in lightning? Or to shock them to death?

Bull didn't know. But sometimes, Adaar wondered if it was just an act.

He could hear the chains in Bull's voice, and feel the threads of the Qun sewing his lips shut every time they spoke.


	29. Snap (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: What will make your Inquisitor lose control?

**Arenis Adaar** : Not much, really. She's a rather grim and stoic woman. The mission comes first, and whatever her reservations, she may have will be put aside. Emotions bubble under the surface, restrained just barely by Arenis' professionalism as a former mercenary who found herself in difficult situations before. But if there's one thing that will have her throw aside all manners and formality, it is if the Lady Ambassador is threatened. If Leliana doesn't get to whoever it is first, Arenis will let her rage speak for itself. She is silent in her fury, and though she much preferred to avoid delivering the killing blow, there is no hesitation if Josephine is threatened.

**Felandaris Lavellan** : His anger is wild, raw, and primal. While he's attuned to his emotions, never hiding his anger when he feels it, the times when he truly loses control are few and far between. Once, when he failed one of his own clan. He's covered in blood, poison coursing through his veins that took days to fully bleed out. The second, is in front of Magister Halward Pavus. Not everyone of Dalish blood is accepting of those who would willingly choose not to procreate and while clan Lavellan had been welcoming, other Dalish were not. And Fel was not going to stand by while someone else feels as he did. It's the only time he loses control, when someone he loves is threatened, or when a bigot with a closed-mind tries to speak. Fel's lack of control is loud, screaming, and lets everyone in the vicinity know what he feels.

**Ashwyn Lavellan** : Throughout the Inquisition's entire lifespan, she never lost control. Not once. Not when shemlen nobles sneered at her in the Winter Palace, not when Solas left her confused and lost in Crestwood. Not even when Solas vanished without a goodbye. As a mage with unusually powerful magic that fluctuates with her emotions, it is imperative that Ashwyn maintains a tight rein and an imperious command over her feelings. That "indomitable focus" as Solas so called it only wavered once; when he took her in a loving embrace right before he took her hand. And when she lost control, not in anger but in longing grief, the resulting magical force shattered every statue, and made the eluvian flicker.

**Kada Cadash** : She's a carta dwarf, born and bred, meant for the lust of combat and the greed of gold. If the sky being torn open doesn't faze her, then nothing will. Right? Wrong. Hell hath no fury than a mother protecting her children. It's the only time when Kada breaks all the rules. Screw Corypheus, screw the Empress, screw the Wardens, screw everything. Nothing and no one will touch her children. If she has to, she'll get the carta involved, she'll get assassins involved. She'll throw out all the coin she's made if it would keep her children safe. And woe betide anyone foolish enough to get caught. Kada is a fast shot, and her arrows are poisonous.

**Gideon Trevelyan:**  Everything is overwhelming. Being at the Conclave, losing so many of his family, being Inquisitor. All of it. He just wants to get away sometimes, run to someplace no one will recognize him. But he has to be  _strong_ he has to  _lead_ he has to be the  _Inquisitor_ and Maker that's hard. It's one straw after another. He's had panic attacks before, he knows what to expect, but he doesn't know if it will come, when it will come. Somehow, the wait until it all becomes too much is worse than whatever would come afterward.

**Asaaranda Adaar** : He doesn't get angry, or sad, or violent. Such things weren't allowed of Saarebas, and when among the Valo-Kas, there's no need for such negativity. He has control over himself, lest his magic go out of control. But the one thing that clouds his judgement and darkens his vision? Fear. He's afraid of being caught and sent back to Seheron. He's afraid of the Ben-Hassrath. He's afraid for his life and cornered animals fight harder. The moment he feels as though he's threatened, he'll strike with all the might his storms can conjure, heedless of the destruction wrought on his enemies who are nothing but crackling smudges on the earth when he's done.


	30. Scars (Inquisitors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Does your Inquisitor have scars?

**Arenis Adaar** : Oh, yes. Plenty. She's a Vashoth mercenary, what did you expect? The mercenary life leads her into more danger than expected, and being a Vashoth means that she's a bigger target. All of the scars are non-fatal. The largest one is a burn mark on her left shoulder that spread downwards towards her breast. That one hurt like a bitch, but it was a good fight. She tells that story with glee and a glint in her eye to anyone curious enough to ask.

**Felandaris Lavellan** : He has his fair share. Not as much as others, not as much as the Bull, but enough. Most of his scars, like the gigantic gash on his back running a marathon from his right shoulder to his left hip, were done after his vallaslin. But others, the cut that nearly took his eye, was from before the green lines marked his pale skin. It's thin and long, from above his brow down to his cheek. While he's happy to talk about his other scars, he never tells that story. The Bianca to his Varric. He gets a sad, wistful look on his face every time he's asked, and makes up a complete lie more outrageous than the last on the spot.

**Ashwyn Lavellan** : For a mage, she has scars. Faded ones, but there nonetheless. While she doesn't bother to hide it, she also does not take lightly to questions prodding at why a mage would gain a wound deep enough to scar? Solas is permitted to graze his fingers over the raised skin, but only because of the nature of their relationship. Even he does not learn the full story of her scars, only small shrugs and a quick anecdote of why she's scarred the way she is.

**Kada Cadash** : Carta. All the scars she has, from the mangled mess on her face and the even messier state of her back, are from the carta. Jobs gone wrong, explosions that detonated earlier than they were supposed to. There was one burn mark from her left wrist all the way up to the elbow from when she first met Isskari and he lashed out in self defense. Another scar on her shoulder when she and Edra were sparring and Edra's blade got too close. She challenges anyone who stares too long to a fight. "Want me to give you matching scars?"

**Gideon Trevelyan:**  His entire skin is smooth and soft. Like a child's, even though he's past the point of childhood. There are no scars on his body, though his hands grow more calloused over time from firing arrows.

**Asaaranda Adaar** : It's like someone saw him and decided to practice swinging a sword. Or a whip. Every inch of him is scarred. The dark grey of his complexion and the thickness of Qunari skin ensure that the marks aren't visible unless under the right light or close scrutiny. While he doesn't give a damn if people stare at his scars, he does get uncomfortable if people get too close to see the marks on his face. While there are gouges in skin, there's also scars around his mouth. Tiny dots where the stitches used to be.


	31. Pets (Fel, Gideon, Asaar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: does the Inquisitor have any pets?

**Felandaris Lavellan** : He left behind a halla in the clan, but she's not really a pet. The closest is his hart he lovingly called "Hartvellan".

**Gideon Trevelyan:**  A mabari. That he took with him to the Conclave. It's a sad day.

**Asaaranda Adaar** : People like him weren't allowed pets. That said, he's fond of mabaris. Maybe he'll get one for himself in the future.


	32. Wings (DA:I Inner Circle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where everyone has unique wings.
> 
> As a personal headcanon, humans have feathered wings, Qunari have leathery wings, elves have membrane-like wings, and dwarves are wingless.

**Cassandra:** Her wings are large, the pure white feathers fluttering behind her -rising with her ire and shying with her embarrasment- are usually the first things anyone notices about her. But they aren't just large, they're strong too. Frightfully so. Nothing inspires fear than Cassandra charging into battle with her blade brandished, and her wings outfitted with sturdy metal. Her wings are strong and large enough to be used in battle to knock down her enemies without damage to herself. She preens as necessary to get the blood and such off her feathers, but otherwise doesn't make a big deal of it. Her wings most closely resemble a dove's for the shape and colour.

 **Sera:** Perhaps it was due to lack of care, or perhaps it was simply genetics. But Sera's wings are small, shorter than her outstretched arms. Like the bitty cherubs with their fat chubs and heart-arrows pointed at stupid would-be lovers. Of course, those cherubs didn't have the insect wings, but hey, who cares. Sera's wings are clear, aside from the membranous patterns that line the edges and spread about like veins. Her wings are like a clearwing moth's, and shaped like a teardrop. And for something so small and fragile-looking, they're durable. She can use them to give her jumps a little bit more 'oomph' and they don't break even when she accidentally sleeps bent at odd angles.

 **Blackwall:**  They used to be large, like Cassandra's, though not as strong. After the botched job as Rainier, he hides them away. The darkspawn attack that robbed the world of Blackwall, the real Blackwall, also robbed Rainier of his wings. Tore right through them trying to get to Rainiers throat. As Blackwall, he hides his identity behind the lack of wings. Just torn stumps faintly coloured of chocolate. Though he hasn't had wings in years, he still remembers what they looked like. Elliptical, speckled in browns with a dash of yellow. They were the colour of earth. He's gotten quite used to being land-bound, however, and even if an opportunity presents itself for flight, he'd rather not take to the sky.

 **Dorian:** They're big, but not overly so, just enough to get attention and turn heads. His wings are primarily in shades of blue, with just a hint of green thrown in a mesmerising banded pattern. The colours bleed together in a most beautiful display. There are a pair of "tails" that trail from where his wings meet his skin, two long feathers that resemble a nightjars, ending in an eyespot pattern. In Tevinter, wings were for display, and the habit of preening them to perfection was instilled in Dorian at a young age. Not that he stopped preening once he left, mind you. Feathers like his needed constant maintenance. They were useless in a fight, meant for display only, but damn if he's hiding them under his armor. His barriers are strong enough to shield them from harm.

 **Cole:** Spirits don't have wings. In the fade, everything is different. When he assumed the appearance of the first Cole, the Mage Cole locked away in the tower, he didn't take on that Cole's wings. He could have, just as he took on the teeth and nose and lips. He could have, but it didn't. It brought that Cole too much hurt. Pretty, precious, please don't touch it please please, templars cut it off. Don't want you running away. Trapped, terrified, trembling. Seeing the wings of others filled him with envy and sadness and hurt. Why me and not them? Empty and hollow and hurt. Cole doesn't take on the wings.

 **Vivienne:** Darling, Madame de Fer's wings are just as gorgeous as the rest of her. A light blue, with crackling patterns of jet black around the edges and throughout the rest of the wing like jagged cracks in the ice she so effortlessly wield. Her feathers are iridescent, reflecting the light of court and the light of her magic. They're small compared to Cassandra's or Dorian's, but that doesn't make them any less beautiful. Her wings are thin and pointed, feathers smooth to the touch. Not that anyone could ever hope to touch them without being frozen solid. In battle, Vivienne keeps them free to aid in movement, though protected by barriers. In court, she dresses them in the finest silks and jewels. She preens regularly.

 **Solas:** Like other elves, Solas' wings are from chitin. Though, while other elf wings look dainty, Solas' looks intimidating. Four wings that were black as night, tendrils of red and white snaking about in writhing patterns. When Solas flapped his wings just so, it made the patterns look like they were moving. If one looked closely, they might notice that the white was patterned in such a way to look like the gaping maw of a wolf, and the red appeared like the eyes of a pride demon, staring into your soul. Of course, he keeps them folded. It helps him wear the mask of "dutiful apostate" easier when his wings weren't taking up the span of the whole rotunda, or when he isn't conjuring powerful gusts of wind with just a single flutter.

 **Varric:**  Dwarves don't have wings, but he's eternally fascinated with watching others. It's a challenge to describe the colours in his next book.

 **Bull:** They're big. Strong too, like Cassandra's. Relatively simple in design, just a single pair of leathery wings thick enough that you couldn't see the muscles or the bone through the membrane. Useless though. Bull's too big to actually fly but his wings are useful for something else. He doesn't need armor to protect them. They're large enough that being hit by them at full force could break your bones. The wings were twice  Bull's height and had powerful corded muscles. And, just like Bull himself, they were heavily scarred. The right wing has a chunk taken out from the top, and the left has a hole poked through near the bottom.

 **Josephine:** Her feathers are delicately soft and just the right size to be noticeable without hampering her movement too much. She preens often enough to maintain her appearance. Her wings are bronze-gold, dazzling in the light. A few of her secondary feathers are light blue, near the center. All of her dresses are cut and fit to display her wings. It was an easy way to break the ice among visiting dignitaries who might be fascinated about the near metallic sheen of Josephine's wings, and allowed for a way to open negotiations. It also served to take attention off of the room if things weren't quite in the right places.

 **Leliana:** Her wings were large enough to facilitate quick flight, but small enough to be easy to hide. Like Dorian, the feathers closest to her skin branch out. Instead of simple trails however, the feather remains thick and layered. Like a bird's tail feathers. Her wings are dark blue, almost black in the right lighting, but has white coverts on the inside. They are delicate in combat, and are only good for ease of movement. Unless Leliana needs to go somewhere as fast as possible, she keeps her wings hidden.

 **Cullen:**  His wings are small. The feathers are thick, and the wings are taller than they're long, but what they lack in size, they make up for in colour and vibrancy. Cullen's wings are like a wild macaw's, an array or reds and yellows and oranges, with just a bit of green and blue. They're colourful and when he fully stretches them out, almost iridescent, the light playing colours on each feather. They are a liability in battle though, so he keeps them wrapped up. Easier to move, and easier to fight that way. Though he does let them loose in private, smoothing over the feathers when he needs to clear his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially thought of Dorian having peacock wings. Then I remembered that peacocks display with their tails; their wings are actually pretty tame. In shades of blue or green or brown. So instead, I gave him nightjar wings with an eyespot pattern on the trails.
> 
> I know nothing of birds. Or bird wing terminology. You could say that I just... winged it.


	33. Soulmarks (DA:I Romances)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where everyone has a unique mark that represents them as a person. The Mark appears on their lover, and greys out if they are no longer together.

**Cassandra:**  The stark white sword of the Seekers, flanked by blossoming red roses. Her mark is on her right bicep.

 **Sera:**  A cloth of plaideweave strewn about in disarray with a single arrow piercing through. On the back of her left hand.

 **Blackwall:**  A warden's shield and above it, a thunderous raining cloud. On his torso, on the left side.

 **Dorian:**  A black serpent coiled around the Pavus birthright, both are sheathed in purple flames. Right over his heart.

 **Solas:**  A black wolf with many eyes, curled up. Placed on the back of his neck, where he can't see.

 **Bull:**  A greataxe bound in rope and intertwined with a dragon's tooth necklace. Inner right thigh.

 **Josephine:**  A quill in intricate filigree with spiral patterns around it. Below her right breast.

 **Cullen:**  A sword and shield, both glowing an ethereal lyrium blue. Left shoulderblade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't romanced Sera or Cullen yet. Apologies for inaccuracies


	34. Spirits and Demons (DA:I Inner Circle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the Inner Circle were spirits/demons, what would they be?

**Cassandra:**  Spirit of Faith, Demon of Zealotry - Faith is obvious, Zealotry is what happens when her faith goes too far

 **Sera:**  Spirit of Purpose, Demon of Apathy - As Apathy, Sera just won't bother with the noble pricks who punch down, chasing her own fun instead

 **Blackwall:**  Spirit of Honor, Demon of Despair - Honor is him trying to become a better man, Despair is what happens if he succumbs to his past

 **Dorian:**  Spirit of Temperance, Demon of Desire - Temperance is his ideal for moderating the deadly decadence of Tevinter, Desire is that wish twisted

 **Cole:**  Spirit of Mercy, Demon of Vengeance - Vengeance will try to "help" people still, by murdering everything and everyone that makes the world an unjust place

 **Vivienne:**  Spirit of Command, Demon of Envy - Command is obvious, Envy is centred around banter with Blackwall, where he calls her out for wanting what she couldn't have

 **Solas:**  Spirit of Wisdom, Demon of Pride - Pretty obvious

 **Varric:**  Spirit of Hope, Demon of Rage, Demon of Despair - Hope is trying to cling on despite everything, Rage is borne from having Hawke taken in the Fade, Despair is Hope finally fizzling out

 **Bull:**  Spirit of Freedom, Demon of Desire, Demon of Apathy - Freedom is only possible as Tal-Vashoth, Desire is Freedom gone too far, Apathy is the sad effect of losing the Chargers

 **Josephine:**  Spirit of Compassion, Demon of Desire - Compassion is obvious, Desire is what happens when she goes too far

 **Leliana:**  Spirit of Knowledge, Demon of Hunger - Knowledge is obvious, Hunger is when the want of Knowledge becomes overwhelming

 **Cullen:**  Spirit of Valor, Demon of Fear - Fear happens when the Nightmares become too much and it becomes easier to lash out than to try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really difficult.


	35. Party Banter (DA:I Asaaranda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull and his allegiance greatly impacts Asaaranda's banter. For obvious reasons.

(Generic Banter)

Iron Bull: So. Adaar.

Asaaranda: Yes. That is my name.

Iron Bull: Weapon. Nice. Picked it out yourself?

Asaaranda: My parents, actually. My mother, more specifically.

 

(Generic Banter)

Asaaranda: You keep staring at me, The Iron Bull. Why?

Iron Bull: It's nothing. Just not used to someone being taller than me.

 

(Generic Banter)

(Only if Bull is not in party)

Varric: Can I ask you a question, Stormy?

Asaaranda: Of course.

Varric: You and Cole are the only ones who call Tiny by his full name. Why is that?

(If present) Cole: Should I stop?

Asaaranda: He has introduced himself as 'The' Iron Bull. The article is included. It would feel wrong to me if I do not use his name.

Varric: Are names that important to you?

(If present) Solas: Under the Qun, there are no names. Just a series of numbers and letters. To my understanding, it is this practice that drives the deserters of the Qun to place great importance on names.

Asaaranda: The Vashothari, yes. Exactly. Thank you for putting it into words, Solas.

(If Solas not present) Asaaranda: To me, yes. The Vashothari have been raised to place respect on the names of others.

(Continuation)

Varric: Want me to stop calling you Stormy?

Asaaranda: I would not mind if you continue. The nickname would be refreshing.

 

(Generic Banter)

Dorian: Can you tell me something?

Asaaranda: Yes. It depends.

Dorian: Why is it that everyone calls you Adaar?

(Default) Asaaranda: It is my name.

(If Varric is present) Asaaranda: Varric calls me Stormy.

Varric: With permission.

Dorian: I meant your first name. Adaar is your family name. Why does no one call you by your first name?

(If Blackwall is present)

Blackwall: I don't think I've ever even heard Adaar's first name.

Cassandra: Leliana mentioned it once, but I can't quite recall what it was.

Sera: I heard piss about it too.

Varric: (laughs) A mysterious man with a mysterious past and a mysterious name. This bestseller's writing itself.

Asaaranda: I have not told anyone my name.

(Blackwall not present)

Asaaranda: I believe it is because no one knows what my name is.

 

(Generic Banter)

(Only if Cassandra is being romanced)

Sera: (whispers) Psst. Hey. Hey you.

Asaaranda: Yes?

Sera: I know what's going on in that head of yours.

Asaaranda: I was not aware that you had been able to read minds.

Sera: Don't need no mind-readin to see the bedroom eyes you give Cassandra when you think she's not looking.

Asaaranda: Pardon?

Sera: You want to see her out the armour don't you?

Asaaranda: We are going to move on.

Sera: (cackles)

 

(Generic Banter)

Asaaranda: I have been told that you had been asking questions about me, Varric.

Varric: Oh yeah. It's going into my next book. It's a lot harder writing you than it was writing Hawke. Or anyone else.

Asaaranda: Why is that?

Varric: It's your speech pattern. The way you talk is so unique. Completely different from everyone else I've met and it's a challenge.

Asaaranda: I have no reaction.

Varric: (laughs) Like that!

 

(Post-Fight Banter)

Vivienne: My dear, you wouldn't be so injured after every skirmish if you'd just cast a barrier.

Asaaranda: I will say that I will keep that in mind, but I will forget it immediately.

Sera: Pssh, why bother sayin it then?

Asaaranda: I do not like to leave someone without a response and I do not like to lie.

 

(After Dorian's personal quest, Tal-Vashoth Bull, high approval with both)

Asaaranda: It is Asaaranda.

Dorian: Pardon?

Asaaranda: Once, you had asked me why everyone calls me Adaar and I had answered that it was because no one knows my first name.

Asaaranda: It is Asaaranda.

Dorian: I'll admit, I didn't think you'd tell me.

(Bull not present)

Dorian: Does it have special meaning to you?

Asaaranda: Yes. It means 'thunderstorm' in the tongue of the Qunari. I have been told that it was fitting.

Dorian: With the way you hurl lightning at every enemy you meet, yes, it is very fitting.

(If present) Bull: (laughs) Thunderstorm! Ah, it suits you boss.

Asaaranda: I appreciate the compliment.

(If present) Cassandra: I can see why you chose that.

Asaaranda: Yes.

 

(Generic Banter)

Cassandra: You have quite the number of scars for a mage.

Asaaranda: Am I displeasing to be looked upon?

Cassandra: What? No. I was just wondering how you got those scars.

(Bull is present, Qun-loyal)

Asaaranda: Fighting.

Cassandra: I see.

(Bull not in party or Tal-Vashoth Bull)

Asaaranda: In the place where I am from, mages are not treated kindly.

 

(Generic Banter)

Solas: I'm curious, Inquisitor. How did you learn your magic? I imagine there are few mercenaries capable of casting magic.

Asaaranda: Yes. There were few mages in the Valo-Kas, but there were mages. I learned from them.

 

(Generic Banter)

Cassandra: I've seen mages before. Those trained in the Circle and hedge mages without formal training.

Cassandra: You do not fight like either.

Asaaranda: Yes.

Asaaranda: I was not taught in a circle.

Cassandra: (sighs)

 

(Bull is Tal-Vashoth)

Bull: How long have you been tying knots like that?

Asaaranda: All my life. I had stopped when you joined, and started again when the Qun declared you as Tal-Vashoth.

Bull: Son of a bitch.

Bull: You had me fooled there, boss. Knew something was off, but didn't know what until now. Good on you.

Asaaranda: You had not suspected...?

Bull: Oh I suspected, but there were too many variables.

Bull: You talk differently. And the accent is a mix of everything at once. The knots you tie in Orlesian style. The way you move. Too many what-ifs. Not going to send a report based on a speculation.

Asaaranda: I am glad that you did not send a report.

 

(Post-Fight Banter)

Sera: There's an arrow stickin outta you!

Asaaranda: Yes.

Sera: All that blood and all you got to say is yes? Don't it hurt to get stuck like a pincushion?

Asaaranda. No. My pain tolerance is higher than that of a normal person.

Sera: That's wicked. And creepy. Mostly creepy.

Asaaranda: So I have been told.

 

(Bull is Tal-Vashoth)

Cole: SB-EL2-510-871M.

Cole: The brand is like a thorn, tangled, twisting, turning you into something you're not.

Cole: You're afraid. It's okay to be afraid, but you don't have to watch beside you anymore. The Iron Bull isn't the chain.

Asaaranda: He is a friend, now. As are you, Cole.

Cole: I'm your friend! Thank you.

 

(After In Hushed Whispers, Mages free)

Asaaranda: You are still unhappy with my decision in Redcliffe.

Cassandra: (sighs) I am. It would be pointless to hide it.

Cassandra: I know you are a mage, but surely, there are better ways of handling Fiona and her followers.

(Qun-loyal Bull in party) Asaaranda: I had felt rushed. I did not have the time to think of the long-term effects.

(Bull not in party)

Asaaranda: We have different opinions on mages.

Cassandra: I see.

(Bull is Tal-Vashoth)

(If banter is not triggered the first time) Asaaranda: There was a reason for my decision in Redcliffe.

Asaaranda: In the Qun, the mages are not allowed any freedom.

Asaaranda: The mages are to be kept isolated. Away from other people. In the Qun, mages are not treated like people. They do not exist, unless they are fighting for the Antaam.

Asaaranda: To my understanding, the Circles do not treat their mages like this. Yet. It may change. It may not.

Asaaranda: But I believe that putting chains on the mages will only lead to more ignorance.

Asaaranda: (gasps) I apologize. I should not have talked so much.

Cassandra: No no. It's fine. You have given me plenty to think about.

 

(Generic Banter)

Cassandra: Inquisitor?

Cassandra: A while ago, you talked about how mages are treated under the Qun.

Asaaranda: I should not have talked so much. I am sorry if I had bothered you.

Cassandra: Actually, I wanted to ask more about the mages living under the Qun.

Asaaranda: Oh.

Asaaranda: I did not expect this. But it is a pleasant surprise.

Asaaranda: Under the Qun, the saarebas are bound in chains. The arvaraad are like templars.

Asaaranda: The arvaraad watch them to ensure that they do not use magic without permission, and that they do not remove their chains. Mages who try to remove them are killed.

Asaaranda: The saarebas have their mouths sewn shut. Some have tongues cut out. The horns are usually broken, but not always.

Asaaranda: It was not a good life. It could not be called a life.

 

(Generic Banter)

Sera: So where'd you learn to talk?

Asaaranda: I was taught.

Sera: Right yeah I got that bit. I meant why'd you talk like one of those tranquil. You know, with the long sentences and dead voice.

Asaaranda: It is easier to speak slowly and clearly so that I will be understood by everyone.

Sera: Riiiiight.

Sera: Don't believe you, but whatever. Keep your secrets.

 

(Post-fight Banter)

Vivienne: Your lightning is terribly unrestrained, my dear. There's no control.

Asaaranda: I know.

Vivienne: And? Do you intend to carry on as you are?

Asaaranda: Yes. This has been ingrained in me. It would be no different than asking you to reconsider your stance on the Circles.

Vivienne: I see. A pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant write Cole for shit


End file.
